HHH 


THE  LIBRARY 


OF 


THE 


OF 


LOS 


UNIVERSITY 
CALIFORNIA 
ANGELES 


SILENT  STRUGGLES. 


BY 


MRS.  AM  S.  STEPHENS. 

AUTHOR  OF   "THE  WIFE'S  SECRET,"   "  THE  REJECTED  WIFE,"  "MA.BT 

DERWENT,"  "FASHION  AND  FAMINE,"    "THE    HEIRESS," 

"THE    OLD    HOMESTEAD,"     ETC.,    ETC. 


A  woman's  heart,  though  delicate,  is  strong, 

Like  virgin-gold  it  takes  the  furnace  heat. 
Giving  to  history  and  immortal  song 

A  glow  of  heroism  pure  and  sweet. 
Great  men  have  sought  the  battle  in  their  pride, 

Hewing  a  path  to  glory  as  they  fell ; 
But  women,  braver  still,  have  grandly  died 

In  silent  struggles — fame  may  never  tell. 


JJ  Ij  i 1  a  i)  c  I  p  !)  i  a : 

T.    B.    PETERSON    &    BROTHERS, 
306    CHESTNUT    STREET. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  In  the  year  1865,  by 

MRS.    ANN    8.    STEPHENS, 

IB  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  in  and  for  th* 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


PS 


DEDICATION. 


TO  MES.  GEOKGE  H.  FENFIELD,  OF  HAETFOED,  COKH. 

\ 

DEAR  LADY  : — 

One  of  the  sweetest  privileges  connected  with  the 
authorship  of  a  book  is,  that  it  can  be  made  the  landmark 
of  such  love  and  kindly  feeling  as  have  united  us  from  the 
day  that  we  first  met  till  now.  Believe  me,  it  shall  not  prove 
my  fault  if  this  dedication  fails  to  link  the  future  with  the 
past,  in  one  perfect  and  life-long  friendship. 

ANN  S.  STEPHENS. 
NEW  YORK,  APRIL  8,  1865. 

(17) 


1703803 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER    I. 

THE  SHIP  IN  A  STORM 25 

CHAPTER   II. 

THE  OLD  STONE  HOUSE 38 

CHAPTER   III. 

THE  MINISTER 45 

CHAPTER   IV. 

EARLY  IN  THE  MORNING 51 

CHAPTER  V. 

SIR  WILLIAM  AND  HIS  WIFE 58 

CHAPTER   VI. 

A  GUIDE  TO  THE  FARM-HOUSE 64 

CHAPTER   VII. 

THE  UNEXPECTED  VISITOR 74 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  MINISTER  AND  HIS  PUPIL 85 

CHAPTER   IX. 

THE  FORCED  SACRAMENT 95 

19 


20  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER   X. 

MM 

HUNTED  DOWN 104 

CHAPTER   XL 

DOOMED  TO  SLAVERY 113 

CHAPTER  XII. 

ELIZABETH  AND  HER  COUSIN 124 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  BROTHER  AND  SISTER 130 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
ANNA  HUTCHINSON'S  CURSE 139 

CHAPTER  XV. 

GIVEN  UP  TO  REVENGE 144 

CHAPTER    XVI. 

THE  ACCEPTED  INVITATION 149 

CHAPTER    XVII. 

THE  LOVER'S  QUARREL -    156 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

GATHERING  ROSES  AND  THORNS 165 

CHAPTER   XIX. 

CONVERSATION  ON  THE  PORCH 174 

CHAPTER    XX. 

•WILD  JEALOUSY „ 182 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

PASSIONATE  DENUNCIATIONS 188 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  DEATH  FIRE..... .    195 


CONTENTS.  21 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

rA«i 

TITUBA'S  STORY  CONTINUED , 203 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

AMONG  THE  SHADOWS 212 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  MORNING  RIDE 220 

CHAPTER   XXVI. 

BACK  TO  THE  HOMESTEAD 228 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE  CHIEF  AND  THE  LADY 240 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

WORKING  OF  THE  EVIL  SPELL 249 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

ASKING  FOR  SHELTER 257 

CHAPTER   XXX. 

STRANGE   SHADOWS 263 

CHAPTER    XXXI. 

NOON  IN  THE  WOODS 215 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE   BEACON  FIRE 284 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

ALI    OR   NOTHING 295 

CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

TOWARD   THE   SHORE 299 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 

UNACCOUNTABLE   SYMPATHIES  ..  303 


22  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER   XXXVI. 

FAOB 

SOUL  TORTURES 310 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

DENUNCIATIONS  AND  REPROACHES 316 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

SHELTERED   IN  THE   WOODS 324 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

TAKEN   CAPTIVE 332 

CHAPTER  XL. 

THE   ACCUSERS   OF   BARBARA 337 

CHAPTER  XLI. 

BARBARA   IN   HER  DUNQEON 344 

CHAPTER  XLII. 

OLD  FRIENDS  IN   COUNCIL 349 

CHAPTER  XLIII. 
THI  MINISTER'S  EVIDENCE 356 

CHAPTER  XLIV. 

PROGRESS   OP  THE  TRIAL 363 

CHAPTER  XLV. 

CONCLUDING   TESTIMONY 368 

CHAPTER  XLVL 

THE   STRANGE  ADVOCATE t. 377 

CHAPTER  XLVII. 
THE  WIFE'S  APPEAL 383 

CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

THE   FOREIGN    PACKAGE 393 


CONTENTS.  23 

CHAPTER   XLIX. 

MM 
STRANGE   TIDINGS 400 

CHAPTER  L. 

BARBARA  STAFFORD'S   STORY 405 

CHAPTER  LI. 

A   MOTHER 413 

CHAPTER   LIT. 

THE   LAST  WISH 418 

CHAPTER  LIU. 

THE   PRISON   WEDDING 425 

CHAPTER   LIY 

THE   ICE   COVE 434 

CHAPTER   LY. 

CLOSING    SCENES 447 

CHAPTER   LYI. 

OVER  THE    WATER 456 


SILENT  STRUGGLES. 


THE     SHIP    IN    A    STORM. 

A  STORM  had  been  lowering  all  day  over  the  harbor  of 
Boston,  heaping  the  horizon  with  vast  leaden  embank 
ments  of  heavy  vapor,  and  shrouding  the  hills  with  dense 
floating  fog  that  clung  around  them  in  waves  and  masses 
like  draperies  sweeping  adown  some  old  monastic  ruin. 
As  the  night  approached,  a  sharp  wind  came  up  from  the 
east,  accompanied  by  a  drifting  rain  that  cut  through  the 
fog  like  a  storm  of  silver  shot.  The  force  of  the  tempest 
swept  this  away  only  to  reveal  the  harbor  in  wild  turmoil, 
its  waters  heaving  shoreward  filled  with  muttering 
thunders  from  the  far  off  ocean,  and  each  hill  rever 
berating  hoarsely  to  their  impetuous  charge  against  it3 
foundations. 

It  was  a  terrible  hour  for  any  unfortunate  wayfarer 
who  dared  to  be  abroad.  The  streets  of  the  town  were 
almost  empty,  and  the  wharves  utterly  deserted  save  by 
a  half  dozen  poor  fishermen,  who  struggled  to  keep  their 
boats  from  being  dashed  to  pieces  against  the  timbers  to 
which  they  were  chained.  But  the  turbid  waves  leaped 

(25) 


2<J  THE     SHIP     IN     A     STORM. 

around  and  over  them,  tearing  the  cables  from  their  hold 
and  beating  the  little  crafts  to  atoms  or  hurling  them 
away  like  nutshells  in  the  stormy  riot. 

As  the  day  wore  on,  even  these  poor  fishermen  re 
treated  indoors,  leaving  their  little  property  to  the  tem 
pest,  and  both  earth  and  ocean  were  given  up  to  the 
storm.  But  on  the  heights  which  look  seaward  stood  two 
men  thrown  together  even  in  that  tempest  into  a  strange 
and  what  seemed  an  almost  unnatural  companionship ; 
for  in  age,  character,  and  appearance  each  was  a  direcl 
contrast  to  the  other. 

The  storm  beat  heavily  on  them  both,  and  though  one 
from  his  age,  and  the  other  from  an  education  which  had 
been  almost  effeminate,  seemed  unlikely  to  brave  a  tem 
pest  like  that  without  an  important  motive,  it  would  have 
been  impossible  for  either  of  these  men  to  have  told  what 
brought  them  on  the  heights  that  boisterous  day. 

The  old  man  had  reached  the  hill  first,  and  stood  with 
his  face  to  the  storm,  looking  out  upon  the  turbulent  waste 
of  ocean  with  an  anxious,  almost  wild  gaze,  as  if  he  were 
expecting  some  object  long  desired  and  watched  for  to 
rise  out  of  that  leaden  distance,  and  reward  his  steady  en 
counter  of  the  elements. 

The  young  man  came  up  the  ascent  with  a  quick,  strug 
gling  step,  for  the  storm  was  in  his  face,  and  he  was  com 
pelled  to  fight  it  inch  by  inch.  He  had  shaded  his  eyes 
from  the  pelting  rain,  and  cast  an  earnest  gaze  into  the 
distance,  as  if  he,  too,  expected  something,  when  the  old 
man's  cloak  was  seized  by  the  wind,  and  borne  out  with  a 
rush  and  flutter  like  the  wing  of  a  great  bird,  which  made 
the  youth  conscious  of  another  presence.  He  looked 
around  suddenly,  and  stepped  forward,  lifting  the  hat 
from  his  head,  with  grave  respect. 


THE     SHIP     IN     A     STORM.  27 

"  Another  man  here,  so  far  from  town,  and  in  all  the 
tempest  ?  I  thought  that  no  one  but  a  harum-scarum 
youngster  like  myself  would  venture  forth  in  a  storm  like 
this  1" 

"  And  I,"  answered  the  person  thus  addressed,  sweep 
ing  back  the  iron  gray  locks,  that  fell  wet  and  scattered 
over  his  forehead,  with  a  hand  like  withered  parchment, 
"  I,  too,  believed  that  nothing  but  an  old  wanderer,  im 
pelled  by  the  spirit  which  he  can  never  resist,  would  dare 
the  wind  on  these  heights.  Look,  young  man,  for  the 
rain  blindsme :  discern  you  nothinginthe  distance  yonder?" 

The  young  man  again  sheltered  his  eyes  with  one  hand, 
looking  earnestly  fprth  towards  the  ocean. 

"  Nothing,"  he  said  at  last.  "  I  have  searched  that  pile 
of  clouds  before,  and  find  only  deeper  blackness  now." 

"  Searched  it  before !  Did  you  expect  something, 
then  ?"  questioned  the  old  man,  turning  a  pair  of  bright, 
gray  eyes  upon  his  companion.  "  Did  you  expect  some 
thing  ?" 

As  he  spoke  those  eyes  grew  wild,  and  the  penetrating 
glance,  which  he  bent  upon  the  youth  from  under  his 
heavy  brows,  struck  to  the  young  heart,  which  was  opea 
to  a  new  impression  every  moment. 

"  Nay,  I  do  not  know.  It  can  be  nothing  but  that 
unaccountable  restlessness  which  never  leaves  me  in  peace 
when  a  storm  is  howling  over  the  ocean.  I  could  not 
etay  indoors — indeed,  I  never  can  on  such  days — and, 
without  knowing  why,  came  up  here  to  look  this  whirl 
wind  in  the  face,  which,  in  return,  is  almost  lifting  me 
from  my  feet  I" 

The  old  man  did  not  heed  him,  but  stooped  forward, 
looking  towards  the  ocean,  while  the  rain  beat  against  his 
face,  dripping  down  in  great  drops  over  his  gray  ey«- 


28  THE     SHIP     IN     A     STORM. 

brows,  and  deluging  the  hand  with  which  he  strove  to 
clear  the  blinding  moisture  away. 

"It  is  coming  !  the  clouds  lift — the  darkness  is  cleft — 
the  bosom  of  the  deep  heaves  with  life  !  Young  man, 
look  again  !  See  you  not  the  faint  outlines  of  a  ship, 
spars,  hull,  and  sails,  reefed  close — there — there,  riding  in 
the  bosom  of  the  storm  ?" 

He  broke  off  with  this  exclamation,  and  drew  his  tall 
figure  upright,  pointing  towards  the  sea  with  a  gesture  of 
almost  solemn  exultation. 

"  Is  that  a  ship,  I  say,  or  a  bleak  skeleton  of  the  thing 
I  have  been  waiting  for  ?" 

"  Upon  my  life — upon  my  soul,  ten  thousand  pardons 
— but  I  think  it  really  is  a  ship,  or  some  evil  spirit 
has  pencilled  the  skeleton  of  his  devil's  craft  in  the 
clouds." 

"  Ha  I"  ejaculated  the  old  man  with  a  start,  "  see, 
see !"  , 

The  strange  being  might  well  cry  out  with  astonish 
ment.  As  he  looked  the  great  embankment  of  clouds 
was  torn  asunder,  and  a  burst  of  fire  kindled  up  its  edges 
till  it  hung  like  streamers  and  tatters  of  flame  around  a 
vessel  of  considerable  size,  which  was,  for  the  instant, 
lifted  out  of  the  cloud  into  full  view.  The  young  man, 
whose  sight  was  clear,  could  even  detect  persons  grouped 
upon  the  deck. 

"  It  is  a  signal  gun.  She  wants  a  pilot,  or  is  in  dis 
tress,"  he  said,  eagerly.  "  Ha  t_  she  blazes  out  once 
more — they  are  casting  her -anchor.  Heavens,  how  she 
plunges  !  There — there,  the  cloud  swallows  her  again  I" 

The  old  man  had  fallen  upon  his  knees,  allowing  his 
long,  gray  cloak  to  sweep  away  with  the  wind.  He 
locked  both  hands  over  his  face,  and  seemed  to  be  offering 


THE     SHIP     IN     A     STORM.  29 

up  either  thanksgiving  or  entreaties  to  heaven ;  for  his 
voice,  sharp  and  piercing,  penetrated  the  storm  too  im 
petuously  for  the  words  to  be  distinguished. 

The  young  man  stood  a  moment,  reluctant  to  disturb 
him.  That  thin  form  was  completely  exposed  to  the 
storm,  and  he  could  not  refrain  from  an  attempt  to  rescue 
the  old  man's  cloak  from  the  wind,  and  gather  it  about 
him.  Besides,  the  grass  was  completely  saturated  on 
which  he  knelt,  and  to  remain  upon  it  longer  might 
bring  a  death  chill. 

"  Sir,  forgive  me,  but  this  is  a  dangerous  place  for 
prayer.  The  earth  is  deluged  where  you  kneel." 

The  old  man  struggled  to  his  feet,  and  looked  down 
upon  the  crushed  grass  with  humiliation  and  wonder. 

"  Kneel !  did  I  in  truth  kneel  ?"  he  said,  anxiously,  like 
one  who  excuses  himself  from  a  grave  crime  ;  "and  here, 
in  the  open  day  ?  I  beseech  you,  remember,  my  young 
friend,  that  it  was  the  surprise  of  yon  ship  and  the  tem 
pest  which  cast  me  into  that  unseemly  position.  When 
a  servant  of  God  prays,  it  should  be  standing  upright, 
face  to  face  with  the  Being  after  whose  image  he  was 
made  " 

"You  were,  indeed  greatly  overcome,"  answered  the 
youth,  arranging  the  folds  of  the  old  man's  cloak.  "  The 
ship  yonder  must  contain  some  dear  friend,  that  its  ap 
pearance  should  move  you  so  deeply." 

"  Some  dear  friend  !  Samuel  Parris  has  no  friends  to 
expect  from  the  mother-land  now.  It  is  many  years 
since  he  and  all  that  is  left  of  his  kin  took  root  in  the 
New  World." 

"And  yet  you  were  looking  for  the  ship  so  anxiously  ?" 

"Aye,  young  man.  I  was  looking  for  something  which 
was  to  come  up  from  the  east  through  yon  gate  of  clouds ; 


30  THE     SHIP     IN     A     STORM. 

but  whether  it  was  a  weather-worn  vessel  or  an  archangel 
sent  on  some  special  mission,  was  not  told  me." 

"And  you  come  hither  expecting  nothing  ?" 

"  Expecting  every  thing,  for  Jehovah  is  everywhere," 
answered  the  old  man,  solemnly. 

The  youth  was  greatly  impressed,  his  eye  brightened 

"  I  only  wish  it  were  in  my  power  to  have  expectations 
grounded  on  so  much  faith,"  he  said.  "Now  I  come 
forth  like  a  storm-bird,  because  a  strife  of  wind  and  water 
fills  me  with  some  grand  expectation  never  realized,  but 
which  seems  always  on  the  verge  of  fulfilment.  You 
may  perchance  smile,  but  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  had  been 
months  and  years  watching  for  that  very  craft  yonder,  as 
if  my  own  fate  were  anchored  with  it  in  the  storm. 
Nay,  more,  the  guns,  as  they  boomed  over  these  waves, 
seemed  challenging  me  to  meet  some  new  destiny,  and 
grapple  with  it  to  the  end,  as  I  will — as  I  will !" 

The  young  man  stretched  his  arm  towards  the  shad 
owy  vessel,  and  his  slight,  almost  boyish  form  swelled 
with  excitement,  while  the  dark  brown  eyes,  usually 
bright  and  playful  as  a  child's,  darkened  and  grew 
larger  with  the  sudden  excitement  that  had  come  upon 
him. 

The  minister  grasped  his  outstretched  arm,  and  fixed  a 
ly  gaze  on  his  face. 

"And  you  also  have  been  on  the  watch.  Like  me,  you 
have  come  blindfold  through  the  storm,  searching  into 
the  future  for  that  ghostly  ship,  -where  it  spreads  its 
shrouds  of  dull  mist,  and  rocks  upon  the  moaning  sea. 
Has  the  spirit  of  prophecy  touched  your  young  life  also, 
that  you  say  these  things  with  a  shortened  breath  and 
white  cheek,  like  one  terrified  or  inspired  ?" 

"  I  know  no't,"  said  the  young  man ;  "  but,  like  you,  I 


THE     SHIP     IN     A     STORM.  81 

have  expected  that  visit  long.  In  storm  and  darkness  as 
it  comes  now  have  I  seen  it." 

"  How — where  ?"  cried  the  old  man,  breathlessly. 

"  In  my  dreams  or  reveries,  I  know  not  which,  it  has 
floated  often,  shrouded  as  it  is  now,  impalpable,  a  phan 
tom  of  spars  and  fog." 

"  And  you  have  seen  this  ?" 

"  No,  not  with  my  eyes ;  it  comes  across  my  life  like  a 
ghost  whose  presence  fills  you  with  awe,  but  answers  to 
no  sense." 

<;  Like  a  ghost  which  you  would  fain  flee  from  and  can 
not.  Is  it  thus  the  spirit  deals  with  you  also  ?" 

"  Nay,  I  would  not  flee,  it  arouses  my  courage.  Even 
now  my  heart  leaps  toward  yon  vessel  as  if  some  precious 
thing  lay  in  its  hold  which  no  one  but  myself  may  dare 
to  claim." 

"  This  is  strange — marvellously  strange,"  said  the  min 
ister,  forgetting  himself  in  the  enthusiasm  of  the  young 
man. 

"What  is  strange?" 

"  That  we  two  should  meet  here  for  the  first  time  in  our 
lives,  haunted  by  the  same  dreams,  waiting  together  for 
the  same  revelation.  Heaven  forbid  that  this  should  prove 
a  device  of  the  evil  one  urging  us  on  to  perdition.  I 
trust  that  you  have  not  come  forth  without  fasting  and 
prayer,  my  young  brother,  for  of  a  verity  there  is  great 
need  of  both  in  these  latter  days." 

The  youth  smiled,  for  solemn  thoughts  made  but  brief 
impressions  on  him,  and  the  idea  of  quenching  any  one  of 
his  bright  fancies  by  fasting  or  prayer  amused  him  ex 
ceedingly,  notwithstanding  the  earnestness  of  the  old 
man's  words. 

The  minister  did  not  notice  this  gleam  of  levity,  which 
2 


32  THE     SHIP     IN     A     STORM. 

would  have  shocked  him  to  the  soul,  for  his  eyes  were 
fascinated  by  the  strange  vessel,  and  he  could  not  force 
them  to  look  steadily  on  any  other  object. 

While  the  two  men  stood  together  the  wind  had  shifted, 
carrying  off  the  rain.  Through  the  gray  mists  left  behind 
came  a  crimson  glow  from  the  sun,  which  was  that 
moment  sinking  behind  the  heights  and  shooting  its 
golden  lances  after  the  storm  as  it  rolled  slowly  back 
upon  the  bosom  of  the  ocean. 

"  It  is  gone,"  said  the  old  man,  mournfully,  as  the  heavy 
clouds  settled  back  upon  the  vessel ;  "the  vapors  have 
swallowed  it  up  as  usual.  Let  us  descend  the  hill, 
brother." 

"  Not  yet — not  yet  1"  cried  the  youth.  "  See  !  the 
storm  is  breaking  away,  the  sunset  has  drawn  it  seaward. 
Look,  look  how  beautifully  the  vessel  pencils  itself 
against  that  break  of  blue  in  the  sky." 

The  old  man  turned  again,  and  clasping  his  hands, 
murmured,  "It  is  neither  phantom  nor  mist,  but  a  ship  of 
sturdy  English  oak,  with  masts  and  spars  standing 
Hush  ! — young  man,  see  you  nothing  upon  the  deck  ?" 

"Yes,  surely,  a  group  of  persons  standing  together." 

"  No,  not  that,  nearer  the  bow  !" 

"  It  is  the  form  of  a  woman  alone,  with  her  arms  folded 
and  her  face  turned  this  way." 

"  Aye,  the  form  of  a  woman  with  an  outer  garment  of 
crimson,  beneath  which  her  arms  are  crossed  as  she  looks 
westward,  is  it  not  ?" 

"  Truly  you  have  described  the  woman,  for,  though  I 
cannot  see  her  features,  they  are  certainly  turned  this 
way." 

"My  sight  is  dim  and  will  not  serve  me;  tell  me, 
stands  the  lady  there  yet  ?" 


THE     SHIP     IN     A     STORM.  83 

"  Yes,  yes — clearer  and  clearer  the  sunset  gathers  over 
the  vessel,  turning  the  angry  waves  to  gold  ;  the  clouds 
are  fringed  with  light,  and  grow  luminous  around  her. 
Sir,  I  entreat  you  tell  me — who  is  this  woman  ?" 

"Alas,  I  do  not  know." 

"  But  the  vessel,  what  is  her  name,  from  what  port  doea 
she  come  ?" 

"  How  should  I  answer  questions  like  these — I  who 
never  saw  either  the  vessel  or  the  woman  till  now,  save 
as  shadows  drifting  through  the  night.  If  yonder  ship  be, 
as  it  seems,  of  tough  oak,  and  the  woman  a  living  soul, 
then  is  the  revelation  complete  and  I  may  seek  rest,  sure 
that  the  end  will  come." 

The  minister  turned  away  as  he  spoke,  and  gathering 
the  cloak  around  him  prepared  to  descend  toward  the 
town,  but  the  young  man  lingered. 

"  Stay,  stay  I"  he  cried  ;  "  the  people  on  board  that  craft 
are  mad  !  No  boat  could  live  in  these  waves,  and  yet 
they  lower  one  to  the  water,  and  men  jump  in,  flinging 
themselves  over  the  side  of  the  vessel.  Come  back,  old 
man,  she  is  preparing  to  descend.  Her  mantle  gleams  redly 
against  the  black  side  of  the  ship  ;  she  gathers  it  around 
her  like  the  wings  of  a  tropical  bird,  and  settles  down  in 
the  boat,  which  plunges  and  rocks  like  a  wild  animal  tug 
ging  at  its  chains.  They  loosen  the  cable — a  wave  seizes 
upon  the  boat — it  quivers  upon  the  topmost  crest — 
plunges — and — oh  !  heavens  !  A  man  poises  himself  on 
the  bulwarks  and  leaps  into  the  boiling  ocean — the  boat 
rocks  heavily — turns  to  save  him — they  grasp  at  bia 
garments  and  attempt  to  pull  him  in — now  the  boat  is 
hurled  onward  and  the  poor  man  is  lost — no  1  they  fling  a 
cable  from  the  vessel — he  snatches  it  and  they  draw  him  up 
the  sides  again.  But  the  boat — another  wave  seizes  it  1 


84  THE     SHIP     IN     A     STORM. 

Old  man,  old  man,  gather  up  your  strength  and  follow  me. 
It  is  for  this  we  have  been  brought  together." 

The  youth  ran  forward  as  he  spoke,  taking  the  nearest 
path  to  the  shore.  The  minister  followed  after  with  a 
degree  of  energy  that  belied  bis  years.  Now  and  then 
they  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  boat,  struggling  feebly  with 
the  waves,  and  this  gave  them  courage. 

It  was  no  slight  distance  that  lay  between  the  crest  of 
that  till  and  the  broken  shore  at  its  foot ;  but  space 
seemed  nothing  to  the  impetuous  young  man.  He  rushed 
down  the  steep,  calling  out  cheerfully  for  his  companion 
to  be  careful  of  the  inequalities  over  which  he  bounded 
like  a  deer,  and  at  length  stood  panting  on  a  curve  of  the 
beach,  with  his  head  uncovered  and  his  wild,  bright  eyes 
roving  over  the  harbor  in  search  of  the  boat. 

It  was  struggling  up  the  harbor,  beaten  to  and  fro  by 
the  wind,  which  seemed  to  come  from  every  point  at  once, 
and  tossed  fearfully  by  the  waves  that  were  wrangling  to 
gether  and  leaping  after  it  like  ravenous  wolves. 

It  was  evident  that  the  sailors  had  lost  all  control  of  the 
little  craft,  which  fairly  leaped  in  the  water  with  a  des 
perate  strain,  as  if  mad  to  escape  from  its  howling  enemies. 
Suddenly  the  wind  took  it  on  the  crest  of  a  wave,  whirled 
it  sheer  about,  and  drove  it  on  with  fury  towards  the  point 
where  Parris  and  his  young  companion  stood. 

A  chain  of  sunken  rocks  girded  the  shore  in  that  place, 
breaking  up  the  waves  into  innumerable  whirlpools,  and 
pending  sheets  of  foam  back  upon  the" storm.  It  scarcely 
earned  a  minute  when  the  boat  made  a  plunge  into  the 
inidst  of  this  terrible  danger,  and  for  an  instant  lay  still, 
with  the  angry  foam  boiling  around  it,  and  the  white  faces 
of  its  occupants  in  full  view.  One  man  held  the  stump  of 
a  broken  oar  in  his  grasp,  and  with  its  splintered  end  beat 


THE     SHIP     IN     A     STORM.  35 

against  the  waves,  as  if  this  frantic  exertion  would  do 
them  good.  Another  had  lost  his  oar,  and  sat  with  his 
arms  folded,  calmly  surveying  the  land,  with  his  wild  eyes 
sternly  measuring  the  danger  before  him.  Two  other  men 
toiled  on  with  the  strength  of  giants,  but  the  oars  were  no 
better  than  rushes  in  their  hands,  and  all  their  strength 
scarcely  more  than  the  flutter  of  dead  tree  boughs  against 
a  wind  like  that. 

All  this  the  two  men  upon  the  shore  took  in  at  a  glance. 
Then  the  female,  who  had  fallen  forward  upon  her  knees 
in  the  stern,  absorbed  their  whole  attention.  The  face  was 
turned  that  way,  white  and  contracted.  Her  hands  were 
clasped  and  flung  out  with  imploring  anguish.  Her  eyes 
gleamed,  her  frame  quivered  and  rocked  to  and  fro. 
The  winds  had  torn  the  bonnet  from  her  head,  and  the 
waters  dashing  over  the  boat  saturated  her  crimson  man 
tle  till  it  hung  heavily  around  her,  and  turned  purple  under 
the  scattered  coils  of  her  hair. 

The  boat  gave  a  lurch  :  she  started  up,  her  white  lips 
parted  as  if  uttering  desperate  cries ;  but  if  any  escaped 
her  they  were  swallowed  by  the  storm.  Still  their  ter 
rible  eloquence  broke  forth  in  one  wild  gesture,  as  she  flung 
her  locked  hands  upwards,  and  sunk  down  again,  shud 
dering  and  cowering  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat 

"  She  cannot  live  !  she  is  lost !"  cried  the  young  man 
upon  the  beach,  frantic  almost  as  the  woman  in  her  peril. 
"  Is  there  no  rope,  no  help,  nothing  ?" 

"  There  is  a  God  above,"  answered  Parris,  who  stood 
with  his  gleaming  eyes  fixed  upon  the  boat. 

The  youth  dashed  out  his  arms  against  the  wind,  mad 
dened  by  these  heavy  words.  Then,  with  a  sudden  cry, 
he  darted  forward  and  seized  upon  the  old  man's  cloak. 

"  Give  it  me — give  it  me  !"  he  cried,  rending  it  from  the 


36  THE     SHIP     IN     A     STORM. 

minister's  shoulders.  "  God  expects  his  creatures  to  work 
when  he  sends  danger — knot  these  strips  together  if  you 
would  not  see  all  those  souls  perish  before  our  eyes. 
Work,  old  man  1  Save  that  woman,  and  I,  too,  will  kneel 
down  anywhere  and  give  thanks  to  God  honestly  as  you. 
Tie  them  firmly,  and  tighten  the  knots  with  hand  and 
foot — see — as  I  do." 

While  he  spoke,  the  youth  tore  the  old  man's  cloak  into 
long  strips,  using  his  delicate  hands  and  white  teeth 
simultaneously  in  the  work ;  to  these  he  added  his  own 
short  cloak,  rent  into  fragments  with  equal  impetuosity. 

The  old  man  obeyed  him,  and  began  to  knot  the  frag 
ments  together,  while  the  youth  pressed  his  foot  upon 
each  knot,  drew  it  Grmly,  and  proceeded  to  the  next.  A 
cable  of  some  length  was  thus  produced,  which  he  tied 
around  his  waist,  while  he  flung  the  other  end  to  the  min 
ister,  who,  fired  with  sudden  energy,  followed  the  direc 
tions  given  him  in  stern  silence. 

"  Now  come  with  me  into  the  surf  and  hold  firm,  or  you 
will  have  another  poor  wretch  to  pray  over,"  cried  the 
young  man.  "  Now,  while  that  wave  goes  out — ah  !  she 
strikes  ! — she  falls  apart ! — there  !  there  ! — that  red  heap 
in  the  foam  !" 

The  youth  plunged  headlong  into  the  waves.  The  old 
man  stood  waist  deep,  with  the  end  of  the  cable  grasped 
firmly  and  wrapped  around  his  right  arm.  The  winds 
dashed  in  his  face  and  swept  around  his  feet,  striving  to 
uproot  them,  but  he  stood  firm  ;  the  waters  might  as  well 
have  beat  against  a  pillar  of  iron.  He  felt  the  cable 
tighten  with  a  jerk  ;  for  an  instant  he  saw  the  youth  upon 
the  crest  of  a  wave,  then  all  was  roar  and  darkness.  A 
wave  1  ad  rolled  in  and  out  again,  straining  at  the  cable 
till  it  almost  broke  the  old  man's  arm.  Another  rush  of 


THE     SHIP     IN     A     STORM.  37 

water.  The  cable  slackened,  it  was  broken,  or — wild  hope 
—the  waters  which  came  roaring  in  might  bring  the  youth 
in  their  bosom. 

The  old  man  turned  and  fled  up  the  shore,  shouting  a 
thanksgiving  as  he  felt  the  cable  tighten  in  his  hold.  Like 
a  monster  that  bears  a  child  on  its  bosom,  the  wave  rushed 
up,  and  surged  back  again,  leaving  two  human  beings 
struggling  in  its  spent  foam.  A  mass  of  dull  crimson, 
broke  up  through  the  white  froth,  and  tresses  of  long  hair 
floated  on  the  foam  wreaths. 

The  old  man  rushed  back,  seized  upon  these  two  life 
less  creatures,  and  dragged'  them  to  dry  land.  His  iron 
energies  were  all  aroused  now ;  other  human  beings  were 
yet  in  the  waves.  He  left  the  strange  female  and  the 
youth,  helpless  as  they  were,  and  went  back  in  search  of 
other  lives. 

It  took  time,  for  the  poor  boatmen  were  struggling  hard 
for  life,  and  the  storm  fought  them  inch  by  inch,  sweeping 
one  man  into  eternity,  and  washing  over  the  others  every 
moment. 

While  feelings  of  humanity  transformed  this  dreamer 
into  an  activity  that  would  have  astonished  any  one  that 
knew  him,  the  two  persons  he  had  already  saved  lay 
senseless  on  the  bank  of  ferns  where  he  had  cast  them 
down.  It  was  not  yet  dark,  and  a  black  shadow  from  the 
hills  rolled  o^pr  them,  making  their  white  faces  ghastly  as 
death.  The  woman  was  the  first  to  move  ;  she  struggled 
a  little,  clasping  and  unclasping  her  hands  with  quick 
spasms  of  pain.  Then  the  violet  tinge  grew  to  a  faint 
flush  on  her  eyelids,  and  they  quivered  open,  allowing  two 
large  gray  eyes  yet  filled  with  dull  affright  to  look  up 
ward  with  vague  wonder  upon  the  sky. 

Directly  other  senses  awoke  from  their  lethargy.     The 


38  THE     OLD      STONE     HOUSE. 

boon:  of  the  ocean  struck  a  shudder  through  all  her  frame ; 
she  began  to  tremble  beneath  the  cold  sweep  of  the  winds, 
and  felt  vaguely  about  with  her  hand  for  something  to 
fold  about  her. 

Instead  of  the  garment  she  sought,  her  hand  fell  across 
the  pale  face  of  the  young  man,  and  struck  a  fresh  chill 
to  her  heart.  She  began  to  remember  where  she  was, 
and  what  had  happened.  Her  first  thought  was  that  one 
of  the  dead  seamen  had  been  cast  to  her  side,  but,  for  a 
time,  she  had  no  strength  to  rise  up  and  look  at  the  cold 
horror. 


CHAPTER   II. 

THE    OLD    STONE    HOUSE. 

IT  must  have  been  a  death-chill,  indeed,  that  could  long 
restrain  the  warm  heart  of  Barbara  Stafford.  Her  first 
real  impulse  was  to  arise,  and  see  if  the  poor  man  at  her 
side  was  indeed  dead. 

The  effort  was  a  painful  one,  but,  to  her,  will  was 
strength.  She  lifted  her  two  hands,  parted  the  wet  lock** 
from  her  face,  struggled  up  to  a  rest  on  one  elbow,  till  her 
eyes  fell  on  the  pale,  beautiful  face  of  the  young  man. 
Slowly  her  lips  parted,  and  her  large,  wild  eyes  filled  with 
holy  wonder.  She  was  like  a  spirit  just  landed  on  the 
shores  of  eternity,  doubting  if  her  companion  were  in 
truth  an  angel. 

She  held  the  dripping  hair  back  from  her  cheek  with 
one  hand,  for  the  sight  of  that  young  face  had  arrested 


THE     OLD     STONE     HOUSE.  39 

it  therte,  and  slowly  over  her  singular  features  dawned  a 
paie,  soft  light,  that  illuminated  her  countenance  without 
leaving  a  tint  of  color  there. 

After  a  little,  Barbara  Stafford  drew  a  deep,  tremulo.ia 
breath,  that  was  long  in  coming,  for  the  holy  depths  of 
her  heart  could  not  be  broken  up  at  once.  She  arose  to 
a  sitting  posture,  and  lifted  the  head  of  the  young  man  to 
her  lap. 

That  moment  Samuel  Parris  came  up  followed  by  the 
three  sailors  his  courage  had  rescued. 

"Ah,  me  !"  said  the  old  man,  clasping  his  hands  sorrow 
fully  over  the  body.  "  The  youth  has  gone  to  his  last 
account;  there  is  no  life  here." 

The  woman  looked  quickly  around  ;  a  spasm  of  pain 
contracted  her  features  when  she  saw  the  ocean,  the  drip 
ping  sailors,  and  that  singular  old  man,  stricken  with 
sorrow,  and  moaning  over  the  cold  form  in  her  arms. 
She  was  still  of  earth  ;  this  conviction  left  her  gazing 
wistfully  in  the  old  man's  face;  she  was  trying  to  com 
prehend  the  connection  of  his  words.  At  last,  under- 
Ptanding  them,  she  dropped  her  eyes  sorrowfully  down 
ward  again. 

"  He  is  gone  of  a  verity,"  said  Parris,  dropping  the 
hand  of  the  youth  from  his  fingers,  which  had  been 
tremulously  searching  for  the  beat  of  a  pulse.  "  He  has 
gone,  and  those  that  have  seen  him  shall  see  him  no 
more." 

Again  Barbara  Stafford  lifted  a  gaze  full  of  mournful 
intensity  upon  the  old  man's  face. 

"  Dead,"  she  echoed,  in  a  voice  that  thrilled  even  that 
rough  atmosphere  with  pathetic  sweetness.  "  Dead  I 
what,  does  he  belong  to  that  shore  and  I  to  this  ?  Oh, 
would  to  God  I  had  died  also  !" 


40  THE     OLD     STONE     HOUSE. 

Her  head  bent  slowly  downward  as  she  spoke.  With 
her  two  hands  she  began  smoothing  the  wet  hair  back 
from  that  pale  forehead.  Then,  as  if  overcome  with 
unaccountable  tenderness,  she  bent  doivn  her  mouth  and 
kissed  it  slowly,  lingeringly,  as  the  first  sigh  of  returning 
life  had  left  her  bosom. 

Up  to  that  moment  the  young  man  had  lain  frozen 
lifeless,  without  a  beat  of  the  pulse  or  a  flutter  of  the 
breath.  As  that  woman's  lips  touched  his  forehead,  a 
shudder  ran  visibly  through  what  seemed  marble  a  moment 
before,  and  a  low  cry  broke  from  his  lips.  Life  had  come 
back  to  him  with  a  pang  either  of  pain  or  pleasure ;  no 
one  could  tell  which. 

"Behold,"  said  Samuel  Parris  with  enthusiasm,  "truly 
our  Lord  has  worked  a  miracle  in  behalf  of  this  youth ; 
for  of  a  verity  there  was  no  life  in  him  when  his  hand 
rested  in  mine  a  moment  since." 

Barbara  Stafford  had  withdrawn  her  lips  from  his 
forehead  ;  but,  as  his  quivering  eyelids  opened,  the  look 
of  strange  tenderness  with  which  she  bent  over  him 
penetrated  to  every  fibre  of  bis  heart.  The  same  holy 
expression  that  had  crept  over  her  features  a  little  time 
before,  came  to  his  also,  bringing  warmth  and  color, 
almost  a  smile  with  it. 

"At  last !"  he  murmured,  like  one  just  aroused  from  a 
dream,  "  at  last  you  have  come." 

The  words  were  uttered  in  a  low  murmur,  but  Barbara 
Stafford  gathered  them  into  her  heart  unshared  by  the 
men  about  her ;  they  heard  a  faint  moan,  \s  nich  spoke  of 
returning  life,  nothing  more. 

By  this  time  the  whole  group  began  to  feel  the  cold 
insupportably.  The  old  man,  without  cloak  or  coat, 
shook  in  all  his  limbs,  while  the  sailors  could  hardly 


THE     OLD     STONE     HOUSE.  41 

stand,  so  fierce  had  been  their  struggle  with  the 
waves. 

"  Te!l  me,"  said  Samuel  Parris,  addressing  one  of  the 
sailors,  "  to  whom  were  you  conveying  this  lady  ? — for 
such  I  take  her  to  be." 

"  We  do  not  know,"  answered  the  man  ;  "  she  gave 
us  a  guinea  a-piece  to  set  her  upon  one  of  the  wharves 
yonder  before  sunset ;  that  is  all  we  can  tell  you  of  the 
matter." 

"  Lady,"  said  Parris,  addressing  Barbara  directly,  "  we 
must  find  speedy  shelter  or  this  new-born  life  will  go  out 
igain." 

The  lady  lifted  her  face  ;  it  was  cramped  and  so  cold 
that  a  violet  tinge  shadowed  the  mouth  and  lay  underneath 
the  eyes. 

"Yes,  he  is  very  cold,"  she  said,  gathering  her  wet 
riantle  over  the  youth  ;  "  have  you  nothing  else  ?" 

"Arouse  yourself,  lady,"  said  the  old  man  after  a 
moment's  perplexed  thought;  "to  remain  here  would  be 
death  to  us  all.  It  is  impossible  for  you  or  this  youth  to 
reach  the  town  to-night.  Around  this  curve  of  the  hill  is 
a  farm-house,  where  you  can  have  rest.  It  is  but  a  brief 
walk." 

"  Let  us  go  before  this  ice  touches  his  heart !"  she  said, 
earnestly.  "  I  can  walk  ;  carry  him  among  you.  Which 
way  lies  the  house  ?" 

Her  teeth  chattered  as  she  spoke  ;  but  even  this  chill 
gave  way  to  her  resolution. 

Two  of  the  sailors  lifted  the  young  man  between  them, 
and  moved  slowly  forward,  following  the  lady,  who  leaned 
on  the  minister's  arm.  After  the  first  few  steps  the  youth 
planted  his  feet  more  firmly  on  the  earth,  and,  though 
staggering  from  exhaustion,  insisted  on  supporting  the 


42  THE     OLD     STONE     HOUSE. 

lady,  walking  on  one  side  while  she  kept  the  arm  of  the 
minister  on  the  other. 

At  last  a  farm-house  of  stone,  low-roofed  and  sheltered 
in  a  hollow  of  the  hills,  presented  itself.  Samuel  Parris 
knocked  upon  the  door  with  his  knuckles  two  or  three 
times,  when  a  voice  bade  him  "come  in."  He  pulled  a 
thong  which  lifted  a  wooden  latch  inside,  and  entered  a 
low  room  in  which  a  woman  sat  alone  spinning  on  one 
of  those  small  flax-wheels  with  which  our  mothers  in  the 
olden  time  used  to  fill  up  the  leisure  hours  obtained  from 
the  general  housework. 

She  was  a  spare,  not  to  say  gaunt  woman,  a  little  on 
the  sunny  side  of  mid  age  ;  not  exactly  austere  of  counte 
nance,  but  with  a  certain  gravity  which  was  in  that  epoch 
considered  an  outward  sign  of  experimental  religion. 

The  woman  arose  in  evident  surprise  when  her  strange 
guests  entered.  Pushing  back  the  spinning-wheel  with 
her  foot,  she  stood  bolt  upright,  waiting  to  know  what 
had  brought  them  under  her  roof.  Mr.  Parris  stepped 
forward,  and  told  his  story  in  a  few  terse  words,  during 
which  the  good  wife  was  unhanding  her  wheel  and  re 
moving  the  checked  apron  which  had  protected  her  dress 
while  at  work. 

"  Walk  in  and  make  yourself  to  home,  ma'am,"  said  the 
housewife,  opening  the  door  of  an  inner  room  and  reveal 
ing  a  fireplace  filled  with  pine  branches  which  looked 
drearily  cold  that  heavy  day.  "  The  hired  man  is  out, 
but  if  one  of  these  sailor  men  will  bring  in  some  wood 
from  the  yard,  I'll  get  some  pitch  pine  knots  and  have  a 
fire  in  no  time."  Without  more  ceremony,  the  woman 
went  to  work,  and  in  less  than  half  an  hour  Barbara 
Stafford  was  in  a  warm  bed,  with  a  bowl  of  herb  tea 
smoking  on  a  little  round  table  by  her  pillow,  while  her 


THE     OLD     STONE     HOUSE.  48 

young  preserver  Jay  in  a  smaller  room  equally  well  pro 
vided  for. 

For  Samuel  Parris  and  the  sailors  the  good  wife  in 
sisted  on  providing  a  comfortable  supper;  and  gave  up 
her  own  bed  to  the  minister,  while  she  found  room  for 
the  unfortunate  seamen  in  a  loft  of  the  house.  In  order 
to  accomplish  this,  she  was  sadly  put  about  for  blue  and 
white  yarn  coverlets  with  which  to  restore  them  to 
warmth,  buj  stripped  every  bed  in  the  house,  and,  when 
that  resource  was  exhausted,  brought  out  all  her  linsey- 
woolsey  skirts  and  aprons  as  a  substitute. 

Early  in  the  morning  Norman  Lovel  was  aroused  from 
a  deep  slumber  by  the  hand  of  Samuel  Parris  laid  gently 
on  his  shoulder.  The  youth  started  up,  shook  back  his 
nair  which  the  dampness  had  left  crisp  and  curling  over 
his  forehead,  and  cast  an  astonished  look  around,  which 
ended  in  a  long,  half-angry  gaze  at  his  visitor. 

"  Oh  I"  he  said,  sweeping  a  hand  once  or  twice  across 
his  eyes,  then  turning  his  face  toward  the  old  man,  with 
a  smile. 

"This  is  no  dream,  T  suppose — though  you  are  here 
with  the  roar  of  waters  too — a  minute  since  I  was  fight 
ing  them  like  a  tiger ;  but  this  is  a  feather  bed,  and  you 
stand  upon  a  good  oak  floor.  Is  it  not  so  ?" 

"  Yes,  thanks  to  the  Holy  of  holies,  we  are  safe  1" 

"But  that  ship — the  boat — the  lady — tell  me  what  is 
real  and  what  was  dreaming." 

"  We  have  had  a  strange  meeting,  my  young  friend, 
and  have  struggled  together  in  behalf  of  human  life,  per- 
ad venture  with  success." 

The  youth  again  swept  a  hand  over  his  face.  "  Yes, 
yes.  I  remember  a  ship  in  the  distance — a  boat  full  of 
people  rocking  in  the  foam — a  madman  jumping  over- 


44  THB     OLD     STONE     HOUSE. 

board — I — you  in  the  waves.  Tell  me,  old  man,  was  this 
real ?" 

"Truly  it  was." 

"  And  the  lady — this  house — the  woman  at  her  spin 
ning-wheel,  who  brought  herb  tea  to  my  bed.  That 
lady — rr"  me,  good  friend,  for  I  remember  all — how  fares 
the  lady .'" 

/  "  She  is  safe — thanks  to  a  merciful  Providence — and 
sleeping  profoundly  in  the  next  room,  at  least  such  was 
the  report  of  Goody  Brown,  in  the  kitchen  yonder,  ten 
minutes  ago.  She  must  not  be  disturbed.  I  had  not 
broken  in  upon  your  sleep,  either,  but  the  sun  is  up,  and 
perchance  there  is  some  one  in  town  who  may  be  grieved 
at  your  absence.  You  must  have  friends,  and  I  would 
cheerfully  bear  them  tidings  of  your  safety." 

"Friends!"  cried  the  youth,  starting  up.  "Indeed, 
there  is  one  who  will  have  wept  her  eyes  out  by  this 
time.  I  pray  you,  sir,  hand  me  such  garments  as  the 
storm  has  left.  We  must  start  together  for  the  town." 

"  Williugly,"  answered  the  minister,  bringing  the  de 
sired  garments  in  from  the  kitchen  fire.  "  But  put  on 
your  garments  in  haste,  for  the  morning  wears ;  mean 
while  I  will  speak  a  word  with  our  host." 

Half  an  hour  after,  the  minister  and  his  young  friend 
quitted  the  farm-house,  leaving  the  woman  they  had  saved 
in  the  deep  slumber  of  exhaustion. 


THE     MINISTER. 


CHAPTER    III. 

THE   MINISTER. 

NORMAN  LOVEL  and  the  old  minister  walked  on  towc.. 
the  town  in  company.      The   earth   was   still   wet   and 
heavy  after  the  storm,  and  a  sullen  moan  came  up  from 
the  depths  of  the  far-off  ocean,  which  filled  the  bright 
morning  as  with  a  wail  of  sorrow. 

But  the  old  man  was  strong,  and  the  youth  full  of  that 
elasticity  which  springs  more  from  the  soul  than  the 
body.  If  either  of  them  felt  any  evil  effect  from  the 
storm,  the  vigorous  speed  at  which  they  walked  bore  no 
evidence  of  it. 

For  some  time  they  moved  on  in  silence.  The  minister 
seemed  lost  in  a  reverie ;  the  youth  was  thinking,  with 
strange  interest,  on  the  lady  he  had  left  behind. 

They  came  down  upon  the  shore  where  the  accident 
of  the  previous  night  had  happened.  A  fragment  of  the 
boat  lay  where  it  had  ploughed  in  upon  the  sand,  burying 
itself  so  firmly  that  the  waves  had  failed  to  draw  it  back 
again,  and  so  had  lost  their  plaything. 

The  two  men  paused  a  moment,  looking  at  the  broken 
timbers.  The  youth  shuddered. 

"  To  think,"  he  said,  looking  wistfully  at  his  com 
panion, — "to  think  that  these  treacherous  bits  of  wood 
alone  kept  her  from  the  deep,  and  I — you — it  seems  all 
like  a  dream." 

"  It  seems  like  the  great  mercy  it  was,"  said  the  minis 
ter,  lifting  his  eyes  to  heaven  ;  "  for  of  a  verity  we  were 


46  THE     MINISTER. 

but  as  two  rushes  in  the  midst  of  the  waves,  frail  like  the 
timbers  at  our  feet,  and  as  easily  broken.  Believe  me. 
young  man,  God  has  protected  this  poor  lady  with  his 
especial  providence." 

"  Indeed  I  believe  it,"  replied  the  youth,  lifting  his  cap, 
for  a  momentary  feeling  of  devotion  came  over  him  ;  "  J 
most  devoutly  believe  it ;  as  a  token,  see  how  the  beau 
tiful  morning  smiles  upon  the  waters.  The  harbor  seems 
scattered  with  rose  leaves.  The  very  sands  at  our  feet 
are  turning  to  gold." 

"  Truly,  God  smiles  upon-  us,"  said  the  minister,  look 
ing  abroad  with  an  enthusiasm  deep  as  that  which 
flashed  in  the  eyes  of  the  youth,  and  far  more  concen 
trated.  "  But  we  linger  here  unadvisedly  ;  the  glory  of  a 
morning  like  this  rests  not  in  one  place.  Let  us  move 
on ;  the  chimneys  over  yonder  are  beginning  to  vomit 
forth  smoke,  soon  the  town  will  be  astir." 

The  youth  did  not  hear  him,  but  darted  down  to  the 
edge  of  the  water,  where  a  strip  of  ribbon  tinted  a  spent 
foam  wreath  with  its  blue.  He  seized  upon  the  ribbon, 
shook  it,  scattering  the  foam  like  snow-flakes  with  the 
motion,  and  came  back  to  where  the  minister  stood. 

"  It  must  be  hers,"  he  said,  revealing  a  locket  of  chased 
gold,  with  a  broad  lock  of  hair  white  as  snow,  knotted 
with  pearls  upon  the  back.  "  It  must  be  hers." 

Parris  reached  forth  his  hand,  as  if  to  take  the  trinket, 
but  the  youth  gathered  the  ribbon  hastily  in  his  palm, 
and  clasped  his  fingers  over  it. 

"  We  have  no  right  to  examine  it,  knowing,  as  we  do. 
the  owner,"  he  said,  hastily.  "The  spring  is  closed.  It 
is  evidently  some  portrait." 

"  But  the  water  may  have  penetrated  to  the  painting 
and  will  destroy  it" 


THE     MINISTER.  47 

"True,  true!"  The  youth,  still  reluctant  to  give  up 
the  locket,  touched  the  spring,  and  with  difficulty  opened  it. 

The  water  had  indeed  penetrated  the  clasp,  but  a  crystal 
underneath  protected  the  portrait,  which  was  that  of  a 
middle-aged  man,  evidently  of  the  highest  rank,  for  his 
dress  was  of  the  most  costly  material,  and  enriched  with 
several  jewelled  orders  which  were  easily  distinguished  as 
belonging  to  the  English  court. 

"  It  is  a  strange  face,"  said  Parris,  bending  his  head  to 
examine  the  portrait,  "  hard  as  iron  and  full  of  worldly 
pride.  Young  man,  I  have  seen  this  face  before  ;  but 
where — when  ?" 

"  How  can  I  tell  ?"  answered  the  youth,  who  was  gazing 
wistfullj  at  the  face. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  after  a  moment;  "it  is  hard  as  iron, 
but  a  grand  countenance,  nevertheless.  That  man  would 
have  died  for  an  idea." 

"  Died  for  an  idea  !"  repeated  the  minister  ;  "  how  many 
have  done  that,  yet  the  idea  a  false  one  ?  But  where  have 
I  seen  that  face  ?" 

The  youth  covered  the  portrait  with  its  gold  again, 
and  the  two  walked  on  more  rapidly  for  the  time  they  had 
lost.  All  at  once  young  Lovel  stopped  as  if  some  im 
portant  idea  had  flashed  upon  him. 

•  "  Sir,"  he  said,  eagerly,  "  did  I  not  hear  your  name 
yesterday,  or  have  I  dreamed  it  over  night — Samuel 
Parris — was  it  in  truth  from  your  own  lips  I  heard  the 
name  ?" 

"Even  so.  young  man." 

"  Samuel  Parris,  minister  of  the  gospel  in  Salem  ?" 

"  Even  to  that  honored  post  the  Lord  and  his  people 
have  appointed  me." 

"One  question  more — only  one —then  forgive  me  if  I 


48  THE     MINISTER. 

am  too  bold.  There  is  a  young  lady  at  our  house — that 
is,  at  the  house  of  Governor  Phipps — her  name  is  Parris 
also,  and  her  father  is  minister  of  a  congregation  in  Salem 
— tell  me  if  this  fair  maiden  is  your  child." 

"  My  child  I"  cried  the  old  man,  lifting  up  his  face  to 
heaven  with  a  look  of  exultant  thanksgiving;  "yes, 
Elizabeth  is  my  child,  the  first-born  of  that  beautiful  one 
who  is  a  leader  among  God's  angels.  Ask  me  if  the  heart 
which  lies  in  my  bosom — the  brain  that  thinks — the  blood 
that  beats  in  these  veins  are  mine,  and  I  will  answer, 
Yea.  But  not  so  closely  do  these  things  encompass  me 
as  does  my  love  for  Elizabeth,  the  babe  that  my  young 
wife  left  in  my  embrace  as  a  blessing  and  a  comfort, 
before  she  was  enrolled  among  the  just  made  per 
fect." 

The  young  man  drew  a  quick  breath  ;  the  enthusiasm 
and  energy  of  the  minister's  speech,  so  uncalled  for  by  the 
simple  question  he  had  put,  startled  him  not  a  little.  Be 
sides  this,  other  anxieties  sprang  up  in  his  mind,  and 
knowing  the  man  with  whom  he  had  been  cast  so  strangely 
by  his  true  name,  he  was  struck  dumb  with  the  rush  of 
emotions  which  this  knowledge  aroused. 

"  Her  father,"  he  said  inly ;  "  her  father — and  is  this  our 
first  meeting  ?" 

"My  child,  my  child!"  cried  the  old  man,  forgetting 
his  companion,  while  his  eager  eyes  were  turned  towards 
the  town.  "Have  I  not  fasted,  watched,  prayed,  nay, 
sent  her  forth  from  beneath  my  roof  that  this  great  love 
may  not  be  as  a  snare,  and  stand  between  me  and  my 
God — between  me  and  the  angel  that  has  gone  before  1 
Now,  when  I  have  been  two  whole  days  within  sight  of 
the  roof  that  covers  her,  holding  down  my  heart,  and  fast 
ing  with  a  soul-fast — the  very  mention  of  her  name,  even 


THEMINISTEB.  49 

by  a  stranger,  sends  the  breath  in  quick  gushes  to  my  lips, 
and  I  tremble  like  a  little  child." 

The  old  man  stood  still  upon  the  shore,  and  the  youth 
paused  with  him,  gazing  up  into  his  face  with  a  look  of 
strange  sympathy. 

"  I  am  grieved,  I  am  very  sorry  1"  he  said,  scarcely 
knowing  that  he  had  spoken  at  all. 

"  God  forgive  you,  young  man,  but  you  have  unsealed 
this  heart  to  its  depths.  The  weakness  is  still  here  ;  in 
stead  of  singing,  '  Hosannah  to  the  Lord,'  it  cries  out,  '  My 
child,  my  child  1'  Pray  as  I  will — fast  as  I  will — her 
name  always  comes  first,  and  thus  I  droop  before  the 
Lord  full  of  terror  and  self-reproach,  an  unfaithful  servant, 
still  keeping  back  a  portion  of  my  master's  treasures." 

"  Forgive  me  I"  pleaded  the  youth,  struck  with  sudden 
remorse  for  the  sorrows  he  had  evidently  excited. 

"  Forgive  you,"  answered  the  old  Christian,  for  such  he 
undoubtedly  was.  "  What  have  you  done  that  I  should 
claim  the  power  to  forgive  ?  It  is  my  own  heart,  which, 
strive  as  I  may,  will  cling  to  its  idol." 

"But  I  have  given  you  pain." 

The  old  man  bent  his  eyes  on  that  ingenuous  face,  and 
before  he  lifted  them  again  they  were  full  of  tears ;  those 
cold  watery  tears  that  come  up  like  melted  ice  from  the 
heart. 

"Ah  !"  exclaimed  the  youth,  "  now  I  see  a  resemblance, 
vague,  hardened,  but  still  I  should  know  that  Elizabeth 
Parris  was  your  daughter." 

Thn  minister's  face  brightened  like  a  lamp  suddenly 
illuminated.  He  reached  forth  his  hand,  grasped  that  of 
the  young  man,  and  his  features  quivered  all  over  with 
the  gush  of  feeling  that  swelled  within  him. 

"  Is  she — is  the  dear  child  indeed  so  like  her  father  ? 


50  THE     MINISTER. 

And  you  know  her — you  have  seen  her,  perhaps ;  tell  me 
is  she  well — does  she  grieve  at  the  thoughts  of  home — 
does  she  pine  for  a  sight  of  her  father  ?" 

He  waited  for  no  answer,  but  heaped  question  upon 
question  with  breathless  eagerness. 

The  youth  looked  at  him  with  amazement.  The  intense 
affection  which  transfigured  those  stern  features  exhibited 
itself  so  unexpectedly,  that  for  the  moment  he  was  speech 
less. 

The  old  man  noticed  this  with  a  deprecating  movement. 

"  She  was  the  daughter  of  my  old  age  !"  he  said,  with 
ineffable  humility,  while  his  shoulders  drooped,  and  his 
face  bent  towards  his  breast,  "she  looks  so  like  her  young 
mother." 

"  She  is  beautiful  as  an  angel !"  exclaimed  Lovel  with 
enthusiasm. 

"  She  is  like  her  mother  1"  murmured  the  minister, 
clasping  his  hands  and  looking  wistfully  out  into  the  dis 
tance.  "Ah,  so  like  her  mother!" 

"  No  wonder  you  loved  her  mother,  then  !"  said  the 
youth,  drawing  close  to  the  old  man  with  prompt  sym 
pathy. 

"Loved  her — oh,  God  forgive  me — how  I  did  love'her, 
young  man  I  The  very  daisies  upon  her  grave  are  like  the 
stars  of  heaven  to  me,  and  she  has  been  dead  since  Eliza 
beth  was  a  babe." 

"  Oh,  no  wonder  you  look  so  old  and  care-worn  ;  it 
must  be  like  burying  one's  own  sool,  to  see  the  mother  of 
one's  child  die." 

The  old  man  did  not  answer,  but  his  bands  interlocked 
more  firmly.  The  feelings  swelling  in  bis  bosom  were 
too  painful  for  utterance.  How  far  the  intense  affection, 
which  death  could  not  diminish,  had  approached  insanity, 


EARLY     IN     THE     MORNING.  51 

it  would  be  impossible  to  say ;  but  all  unconsciously,  the 
young  man  had  made  the  minister  quiver  in  every  nerve 
by  the  genuine  sympathy  he  had  given. 

They  walked  on  together,  and  entered  the  streets  of 
Boston  in  company.  When  they  reached  the  heart  of  the 
town,  the  old  man  stopped  reluctantly,  reaching  forth  his 
hand  with  a  piteous  smile. 

"  Farewell,  young  man,"  he  said,  "  we  may  never  meet 
again,  but — " 

"Nay,  nay,"  cried  the  youth,  blushing  scarlet,  "not 
meet  again — God  forbid  that  you  speak  sooth  in  this. 
Indeed,  indeed — " 

But  the  minister  wrung  his  hand,  turned  suddenly- 
down  a  cross  street,  and  disappeared  before  the  sentence 
was  finished. 

Young  Lovel  looked  after  him  for  a  moment,  made  a 
step  to  follow  the  course  he  had  taken,  then  returning 
slowly,  walked  on. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

i 

i 

EARLY   IN   THE   MORNING. 

THE  town  of  Boston  had  little  of  its  present  compact 
ness  in  those  days.  True,  there  existed  streets  and  lanes, 
and  wharves  which  served  as  barriers  to  the  harbor,  but 
green  turf  lay  richly  where  slabs  of  granite  form  the  side 
walk  now,  the  streets  wound  in  and  out  as  they  had  been 
trodden  broader  and  broader  from  the  forest  paths,  and 


62  EARLY     IN     THE     MORNING. 

around  the  houses  were  yards  and  pleasant  gardens,  with 
carpets  of  green  turf  in  which  the  wild  flowers  still 
lingered.  The  dwellings  were  mostly  of  wood ;  low, 
broad,  and  heavy,  with  cumbrous  adornments ;  coats  of 
arms  surmounted  the  doors,  cut  out  with  the  broad-axe 
and  chisel,  and  heavy  wooden  cornices  loomed  over  the 
front,  betraying  a  surplus  of  timber  and  a  lamentable 
scarcity  of  architectural  art.  Among  these  more  imposing 
buildings,  houses  of  hewn  logs,  and  even  ruder  cabins 
were  scattered,  but  the  trees,  the  grass,  and  many  a 
clinging  vine,  gave  to  the  infant  city  a  picturesque 
beauty  which  can  never  belong  to  the  brick,  granite,  and 
mortar  which  have  taken  so  many  imposing  forms  since. 
But  even  then  Boston  had  its  fashionable  street,  and  its 
aristocratic  neighborhood. 

To  this  portion  of  the  town  young  Lovel  bent  his  steps, 
and  soon  came  out  upon  the  green  lanes  of  North  Boston, 
which  was  in  fact  a  wide  area,  where  the  palaces  of  the 
New  World  loomed  proudly  among  the  grand  old  forest 
trees,  which  softened  their  stateliness  with  touches  of 
natural  beauty. 

The  most  imposing  of  these  mansions,  conspicuous  for 
its  three  stories,  and  a  certain  attempt  at  architectural 
beauty,  was  the  residence  of  Sir  William  Phipps,  Captain- 
General  and  Governor-in-chief  of  New  England.  Those 
who  knew  the  sheep-tender  of  Kennebec,  the  younger 
brother  of  twenty-six  children,  who  even  in  his  boyhood 
turned  haughtily  from  the  occupation  of  his  father  when 
proposed  to  him,  and  predicted  of  himself  that  he  was 
born  to  greater  matters,  might  have  wondered  as  they 
stood  before  that  stately  dwelling,  and  saw  in  its  vast- 
ness  and  its  ornaments  a  fulfilment  of  the  sheep-boy's 
prophecy.  In  all  New  England  there  was  not  a  dwelling 


EARLY     IN     THE     MORNING.  58 

like  that,  or  a  man  so  powerful  as  its  owner.  Yet  Sir 
William  Phipps,  titled,  wealthy,  and  almost  a  sovereign, 
had  not  yet  passed  his  prime  of  life ;  while  he  was  com 
paratively  a  young  man,  all  this  great  fortune  had  been 
wrought  out  by  his  own  stern  energies. 

The  youth  stood  for  a  moment  in  front  of  the  mansion, 
gazing  wistfully  at  one  of  the  second  story  windows.  It 
was  very  early  in  the  morning ;  too  early  for  any  one  in 
the  gubernatorial  mansion  to  be  stirring,  but  he  was  dis 
appointed  to  find  the  curtains  drawn  and  the  shutters 
partially  closed.  Evidently,  the  youth  had  expected 
some  one  to  be  watching  for  him,  rendered  miserable  by 
his  strange  absence  over  night. 

But  every  thing  was  still,  even  to  the  great  elm-tree 
that  swept  its  branches  over  one  end  of  the  house,  and 
the  rose  bushes  that  clustered  along  the  terraces.  The 
youth  did  not  like  to  claim  admittance  till  some  of  the 
servants  were  astir,  so  walked  up  and  down  the  green 
lane,  always  advancing  toward  the  house,  till  you  would 
have  fancied  him  studying  its  architecture  ;  but  his  eyes 
always  wandered  to  one  window,  and  that  had  nothing 
but  a  stone  coping  and  an  arched  top  to  command  his 
admiration.  Still  the  gubernatorial  mansion  was  well 
worth  examining,  if  it  were  only  to  see  how  rudely  the 
arts  crept  first  into  the  New  World  from  the  mother  land. 
Massive  stone  pilasters  separated  the  windows  to  the 
second  story ;  two  long  rows  of  windows  ran  between 
that  and  the  roof,  all  set  in  stone,  and  slightly  arched. 
The  central  window,  with  elaborate  blinds  and  lateral 
sashes,  carried  up  the  outline  of  that  ponderous  wooden 
portico  to  the  still  more  ponderous  cornices  on  the  roof. 
This  elaborate  attempt  at  architecture  made  the  governor's 
house  the  show  place  of  all  New  England.  The  very 


54  EARLY     IX     THE     MORNING. 

children  of  Boston  held  their  breath  with  awe  of  its 
grandeur,  and  were  half  afraid  to  pluck  dandelions  in  the 
green  lane  after  it  was  built. 

But  young  Lovel  had  seen  the  mansion  too  often  for 
any  feeling  of  this  kind.  The  window  still  remained 
shrouded  in  its  muslin  curtains,  though  the  birds  in  the 
elm  branches  had  burst  forth  into  gushes  of  music  that 
might  have  charmed  an  angel  from  the  brightest  nook  in 
paradise,  and  the  rising  sun  came  smiling  over  the  terraces, 
turning  each  dew-drop,  trembling  on  its  blade  of  grass, 
into  a  diamond,  rendering  every  thing  so  beautiful  that 
slumber  seemed  an  absolute  sin. 

"  They  take  it  coolly  enough,"  muttered  the  youth  impa 
tiently,  turning  his  steps  to  the  broad  gravel  walk  which 
crossed  the  terraces  and  reached  the  long,  sloping  steps 
that  led  to  the  portico.  "  I  might  crunch  this  white 
gravel  under  my  feet  forever,  and  she'd  sleep  on.  No 
matter,  I  may  as  well  take  it  easily  as  they  do ;  I  might 
be  in  the  bottom  of  the  harbor  for  any  thing  they  know, 
or  care  either." 

As  he  muttered  these  words,  Lovel  crossed  the  terrace, 
and  stood  between  the  fluted  pillars  of  the  porticoes 
which  rose  proudly  over  him,  crowned  with  Corinthian 
leaves,  and  garlanded  with  rudely  carved  flowers,  that 
ran  up  over  the  massy  cornices,  supplying  the  deficiency 
of  family  armorial  bearings.  But  in  his  waywardness  he 
had  lost  sight  of  the  window,  and  so  walked  back  upon 
the  terrace  again,  pretending,  even  to  himself,  that  he 
wished  to  gather  a  handful  of  blush  roses  while  the 
leaves  were  wet  with  that  diamond  light.  But  his  heart 
beat  unsteadily,  and  he  looked  upward  every  moment  as 
be  broke  the  blossoms  impetuously  from  their  bushes. 
This  impatience  at  the  stillness  broke  at  last  upon  the 


EARLY     IX     THE     MORNING.  55 

gentle  flowers.  He  dashed  them  to  the  turf,  shaking  all 
the  dew  from  their  hearts.  Then  he  rushed  back  to  the 
portico,  raised  the  ponderous  knocker,  and  prepared  to 
swing  it  against  the  great  brass  head  which  seemed  to 
smile  defiance  beneath  the  blows  ready  to  be  rained  upon  it. 
But  his  hand  was  arrested  by  a  sound  within  the  house, 
and,  softly  relinquishing  the  knocker,  he  threw  himself 
upon  one  of  the  long  seats  that  ran  down  each  side  of 
the  portico,  eagerly  watching  the  door. 

There  was  a  sound  of  bolts  cautiously  drawn,  as  if  a 
person  within  were  careful  of  making  a  noise.  Then  a 
leaf  of  the  great  oaken  door  opened,  and  with  its  glitter 
ing  knocker  wheeled  inward  ;  while  the  head  and  shoul 
ders  of  a  young  girl  appeared  bending  over  the  other 
half,  with  a  wistful,  eager  look  that  filled  the  young  man 
with  repentance  at  a  single  glance. 

"Elizabeth!" 

She  heard  and  saw  him  —  struggled  eagerly  with 
the  lower  bolts,  flung  the  last  leaf  of  the  door  open,  and 
sprang  toward  him.  Then  recollecting  herself,  she  re 
treated  a  step,  and  covering  her  face  with  both  hands, 
burst  into  a  passion  of  tears  that  shook  her  slender  form 
from  head  to  foot. 

Then  the  young  man's  heart  smote  him  afresh,  for  he 
saw  by  the  withered  roses  in  her  hair,  the  fine  yellow 
lace  that  shaded  her  arms,  and  her  dress  of  flowered 
silk,  that  the  poor  girl  had  not  been  in  bed  that  night. 
She  had  been  waiting,  watching,  praying  no  doubt  for 
him. 

"  Elizabeth,  dear  Elizabeth  !  will  you  not  look  on  me  ? 
Are  you  not  glad  that  I  am  safe  ?" 

She  could  not  speak,  but  trembled  all  over  like  the 
leaves  of  a  vine  when  the  wind  shakes  it 


56  EARLY     IN     TUB     MOBXINQ 

"  Elizabeth  !" 

She  took  down  her  hands  and  turned  her  eyes  on  his 
face — those  large  deer-like  eyes  full  of  tenderness  and 
shame. 

"  Elizabeth  !  is  this  for  me — I  am  safe,  and  very,  very 
happy,  for  this  terror,  these  blushes.  You  would  not 
look  this  way  if  you  cared  nothing  about  a  poor  fel 
low  !" 

She  began  to  tremble  again,  and  shrunk  back  with  a 
red  glow  burning  over  her  neck,  and  up  to  her  temples 
beneath  the  dusky  shadows  of  her  hair. 

"  Elizabeth,  darling,  speak  to  me,"  said  the  youth, 
trembling  himself  beneath  the  sweet  joy  of  the  moment, 
and  approaching  her  with  his  face  all  a-glow. 

"  Don't,  don't !  I  am  sick  with  shame.  I  did  not  know 
— I  did  not  hope — they  told  us  you  had  gone  down  to 
the  water,  out  in  a  fishing-boat  in  the  midst  of  the  storm 
last  night,  that — that — " 

"  And  you  believed  it — you  grieved  a  little  ?" 

"  I  feared  every  thing  !" 

"  No — not  altogether,  for  you  see  I  am  alive.  But  you 
have  suffered ;  your  eyes  are  heavy,  your  cheek  white 
again.  Oh,  tell  me,  was  it  trouble,  was  it  anxiety  on  my 
account  ?  Do  not  fear  to  say  yes — I  will  not  presume — 
I  will  not  half  believe  it — only  let  me  have  the  happiness 
of  thinking  so,  for  one  little  moment." 

She  lifted  her  face,  and  the  dusky  shame  which  blushes 
usually  carry  to  the  eyes,  died  out,  leaving  them  soft  and 
clear  as  a  mountain  spring. 

"  Was  it  for  you,  Norman,  for  you  that  I  have  wept, 
and  prayed,  and  suffered  ?  Ah  me,  what  agonies  of  fear  ! 
Why  ask?  you  know  it,"  here  the  little  graceful  coquetries 
of  her  sex  would  break  in,  for  she  began  to  get  ashamed 


EARLY     IN     THE     MORNING.  57 

again — "  for  are  you  not  a  fellow-creature  out  of  the 
church,  unregenerated  and  worshipping " 

"  You,  and  every  thing  you  worship,"  cried  the  youth, 
seizing  her  hand,  which  he  devoured  with  his  eyes,  but 
dared  not  touch  with  his  lips.  "Never  mind  whether  I 
am  fit  to  be  drowned  or  not ;  give  me  something  worth 
living  for ;  tell  me  that  oue  day  when  I  am  wiser  and  you 
a  little  older,  not  much,  because  a  good  deal  can  be  done 
in  that  way  after  the  ceremony  ;  but  tell  me  that  you  will 
be  my  wife." 

His  face  was  all  a  flush  of  crimson  now,  but  hers  grew 
pale  as  death  ;  the  last  word — that  holy,  beautiful  word — 
made  her  shiver  from  heart  to  limb.  He  had  been  too 
impetuous ;  Elizabeth  Parris  had  never  dared  to  think  of 
the  mystery  he  brought  so  broadly  before  her.  Her  pure 
maidenly  thoughts  had  hovered  round  it  timidly,  as  a 
shadow  haunts  a  white  lily,  but  she  was  content  with  the 
perfume,  without  daring  to  touch  the  flower. 

"Your  wife,  your  wife  !"  she  murmured,  and  the  words 
fell  from  her  lips  with  silvery  slowness,  like  drops  from  a 
fountain.  "  Your  wife,  and  I  not  yet  fifteen  I" 

"But  you  will  think  of  it.  I  am  a  sad  fellow  to 
frighten  you  so ;  a  sad,  wicked  fellow,  but  you  will  for 
give  it,  Elizabeth  ;  you  know,  out  of  the  abundance  of  the 
heart  the  moutl  epeaketh." 

He  saw  her  sweet  lips  quivering  into  a  smile,  and  for 
gave  himself  at  once. 

"  There  now,  you  see  I  can  quote  Scripture  a  little,  so 
forgive  me  this  once.  I  love  you  till  my  heart  aches 
with  the  joy  of  it.  Think  of  this — promise  me  that  you 
will." 

Promise  to  think  of  it !  alas,  poor  child,  when  would 
she  think  of  any  thing  else  1 


68          SIR     WILLIAM     AND     HIS     WIFK. 


CHAPTER   V. 

BIB   WILLIAM   AND    HIS   WIFE. 

PROBABLY  Elizabeth  Parris  would  not  have  sat  down 
in  the  portico,  but  the  night's  watching  had  made  her 
faint.  When  Norman  Lovel  darted  off  to  gather  up  the 
roses  he  had  plucked,  and  so  rudely  scattered,  she  sank 
down,  watching  him  dreamily  as  he  cast  them  away  a 
second  time,  and  gathered  fresh  ones,  unmindful,  poor 
child,  that  this  might  be  a  type  of  his  character,  and  those 
poor  flowers  of  her  own  fate. 

He  came  back,  bringing  a  rich  harvest  of  blush  roses 
— he  never  gave  any  other  to  Elizabeth — with  both 
hands  wet  with  the  dew  which  rained  out  of  their 
hearts. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  heaping  them  on  the  seat  by  her  side, 
"  let  us  gather  up  a  bouquet  for  the  breakfast-table. 
Lady  Phipps  loves  flowers  fresh  from  the  thicket." 

Elizabeth  Parria  started  up  with  a  look  of  sudden 
dismay. 

"  Lady  Phipps§!  and  I  have  known  that  you  are  safe 
all  this  time  without  telling  her — how  selfish,  how  cruel  1 
It  was  almost  morning  before  she  went  to  her  room.  I 
am  sure  she  has  not  slept." 

As  she  spoke,  Elizabeth  pushed  open  the  door,  and  in 
an  instant  Norman  saw  her  gliding  up  the  broad  staircase 
which  led  to  the  second  story.  He  followed  her  into  the 
vestibule,  and  began  pacing  up  and  down,  turning  his 
eyes  now  on  the  floor,  tessellated  with  lozenges  of  black 


SIR     WILLIAM      AND     HIS     WIFE.          59 

oak  and  red  cedar,  now  upon  the  staircase,  hoping  to  see 
the  young  girl  descend  again. 

But,  instead  of  this,  an  imperious  knock  sounded  from 
the  door  which  he  had  but  partially  closed  ;  at  the  same 
instant  it  was  pushed  open,  and  a  gentleman  strode 
through  with  a  dull,  weary  step,  and  walked  heavily 
up-stairs. 

Norman  was  in  the  lower  end  of  the  vestibule,  and  the 
surprise  of  this  sudden  entrance  kept  him  motionless. 
Recovering  himself,  he  came  forward,  but  only  in  time  to 
catch  another  glimpse  of  the  governor  as  he  entered  his 
wife's  chamber. 

Elizabeth  had  found  Lady  Phipps  asleep,  and,  not 
daring  to  wake  her,  stole  off  to  her  own  room  ;  but  the 
heavy  step  of  Sir  William  possessed  more  power  than  her 
fairy  tread,  and  the  moment  it  sounded  on  the  floor  Lady 
Phipps  started  up  and  inquired  wildly  if  the  young  secre 
tary  was  found. 

The  governor  shook  his  head.  Saddened  by  his  gesture 
Lady  Phipps  fell  back  upon  her  pillow,  and,  turning  her 
face  to  the  wall,  fell  into  a  leaden  silence. 

A  knock,  and  a  sweet,  pleading  voice  asking  entrance 

"  It  is  Elizabeth  Parris.  Poor  child,  she  has  spent  a 
terrible  night,"  said  Lady  Pbipps.  "  Have  you  no  com 
fort  to  give  her  ?" 

"  None  !"  said  the  stern  man,  with  a  quiver  of  the  voice. 
•'  He  was  seen  going  to  the  shore  with  another  person, 
directly  after  a  boat  was  engulfed  in  the  breakers — nothing 
could  have  lived." 

"And  who  was  that  other  one  ?"  cried  the  lady,  struck 
by  the  hesitation  in  her  husband's  voice. 

Sir  William  arose,  and  came  close  to  the  bed,  afraid  to 
speak  aloud  with  that  young  creature  at  the  door. 


60         SIR     WILLIAM     AND     HIS     WIFK. 

"  It  was  Samuel  Parris." 

The  lady  uttered  a  low  cry,  and  buried  her  face  in  the 
pillow.  Her  noble  heart  was  shaken  as  if  it  had  been  her 
own  father  who  was  lost. 

Again  that  knock  at  the  door,  and  now  a  low,  almost 
harsh  voice,  bade  the  girl  couie  in. 

Sir  William  was  hardening  himself  into  composure,  that 
he  might  tell  the  young  girl  of  her  bereavement,  with  the 
firmness  that  became  his  manhood. 

Elizabeth  entered  timidly,  as  she  always  did,  but  her 
face  beamed  with  happiness. 

Lady  Phipps  looked  up  shocked  to  the  heart. 

"  Elizabeth  1"  The  lady  sat  up  in  her  bed  and  held 
forth  her  arms  tenderly  as  if  the  girl  had  been  her  own 
child. 

"  He  is  here — he  is  safe — he — " 

The  young  girl  fell  down  upon  her  knees  by  the  bed, 
pressing  soft  kisses  on  the  lady's  hand. 

Sir  William  Phipps  arose  and  went  out.  It  was  seldom 
that  his  face  betrayed  any  of  the  deep  feelings  of  his 
nature,  but  as  he  went  forth,  that  firm  mouth  quivered, 
and  he  turned  from  one  object  to  another,  searching 
eagerly  for  something. 

"Sir  William." 

The  governor  gave  an  imperceptible  start,  controlled 
himself,  and  reaching  forth  his  hand — the  large,  firm  hand, 
which  had  known  much  toil  in  its  day — buried  that  of  the 
young  man  in  its  grasp. 

"  I  hope  that  Lady  Phipps  was  not  alarmed  by  my 
absence,"  said  Norman,  a  little  chilled  by  this  com 
posure. 

"I  cannot  quite  say  that  with  truth,  young  man," 
replied  the  governor ;  "  but  you  will  explain  all  at  break 


SIR     WILLIAM     AND     HIS     WIFE.          61 

fast.     From  the  state  of  your  garments  I  should  judge 
that  you  had  at  least  been  in  the  water." 

"  Yes  ;  but  you  see  I  came  out  safe — and  that  brave  old 
minister,  also,  Samuel  Parris.  I  wish  you  could  have 
seen  him,  Sir  William  :  he  was  a  perfect  Neptune." 

"  Nay, "answered  the  governor,  with  a  smile  that  trans 
figured  his  face  from  its  usual  grave  expression  int:  some 
thing  that  made  the  heart  leap  towards  him,  "  that  is  a 
heathenish  name  for  one  of  God's  ministers;  but  if  your 
danger,  whatever  it  prove,  was  shared  by  Samuel  Parris, 
it  must  have  been  in  a  good  cause.  I  am  glad,  boy,  that 
your  night  has  been  spent  with  this  devout  man." 

With  these  words  Sir  William  passed  on,  and  entered 
his  closet,  apparently  casting  all  thought  of  the  youth 
from  his  mind.  But  no  sooner  was  he  alone  and  the  door 
closed,  than  he  fell  upon  his  knees  by  the  great  oaken 
chair,  which  had  belonged  to  his  old  father  on  the  Ken- 
nebec.  There,  with  bent  head,  he  poured  forth  the 
thanksgiving  that  filled  his  soul,  so  earnestly  that  his 
frame  shook,  and  his  clasped  hands  unwove  themselves, 
covering  his  face,  while  the  tears  that  sprang  to  his  eyos 
stole  softly  down  the  palms. 

It  was  only  when  alone  with  his  God  that  the  strong 
man  became  like  a  little  child — alone,  with  the  bolts 
drawn,  and  his  face  bowed  over  the  oaken  seat  where 
his  father  had  prayed  with  the  mother  and  her  score  of 
children  by  his  side. 

Governor  Phipps  joined  his  family  at  breakfast,  sedate, 
calm,  and  with  that  dignity  of  manner  which  mav  well 
accompany  a  sense  of  high«power.  Lady  Phipps  could 
not  so  well  conceal  the  traces  of  an  anxious  and  sleepless 
night.  Her  eyes  were  heavy,  her  cheeks  pale,  and  the 
usual  exquisite  arrangement  of  her  morning  toilet  was  a 


t>2         SIR     WILLIAM     AND     HIS    WIFE. 

good  deal  disturbed.  The  robe  of  dark  chintz  was  looped 
back,  a  little  unevenly,  from  the  full  dimity  underskirt, 
aud  the  crimson  ribbon  that  bound  the  snowy  little  cap  to 
her  head  was  knotted  in  a  bow,  slightly  verging  towards 
the  left  temple,  instead  of  lying  flat  upon  the  glossy  black 
hair  over  the  forehead  as  it  should  have  done. 

Besides  these  little  indications  of  unrest,  the  lady  would 
draw  a  deep  breath,  now  and  then,  like  one  who  had  just 
recovered  from  a  fright,  and  she  glanced  towards  the 
young  secretary  from  time  to  time,  with  a  look  of  devout 
thankfulness. 

Dear  lady,  her  life  had  been  so  full  of  happiness,  so  rich 
in  prosperity,  that  the  danger  of  one  she  loved  as  if  he 
had  been  her  own  son  clung  around  her  yet.  She  grew 
paler  as  he  told  over  his  strange  adventure  on  the  shore, 
and  seemed  greatly  interested  in  the  old  man  who  had 
been  bis  comapnion. 

He  did  not  mention  the  name  of  this  person,  and  passed 
over  the  conversation  on  the  beach  entirely,  dwelling  only 
on  that  which  marked  their  encounter  on  the  heights, 
when  the  storm  was  raging.  Some  intuition  told  him 
that  the  young  girl,  whose  eyes  dwelt  so  wistfully  on  his, 
would  be  pained  to  know  that  her  father  had  been  for  two 
days  within  sight  of  the  roof  that  covered  hei  without 
attempting  to  enter  beneath  it. 

Governor  Phipps  seemed  unusually  interested  in  the 
events  he  described,  and  though  the  youth  talked  on  gayly, 
a  superstitious  feeling  crept  over  the  party  as  he  gave  a 
vivid  picture  of  the  spectral  appearance  of  the  ship.  But 
when  he  came  to  speak  of  Barbara  Stafford,  bis  speech 
faltered,  a  husky  feeling  clove  to  his  tongue,  and  it  was 
only  by  questions  that  they  gained  a  knowledge  of  the 
strange  womau. 


SIR     WILLIAM     AND     HIS     WIFE.         63 

"  I  will  ride  over  to  the  farm-house  to-morrow,"  said 
Lady  Phipps,  with  prompt  hospitality  ;  "  if  she  is  a  gentle 
woman,  as  you  say,  Norman,  we  can  be  of  service.  She 
must  have  letters  of  introduction  that  will  warrant  us  in 
asking  her  here." 

Governor  Phipps  looked  suddenly  up  as  his  wife  spoke 
and  his  countenance  changed.  It  was  so  unusual  to  see 
him  in  the  least  disturbed  that  his  lady  remarked  it  with 
some  anxiety. 

"  Are  you  ill,  Sir  William  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  A  strange  feeling  seized  upon  me  for 
the  moment ;  a  faintness — a  sort  of  shock — it  is  nothing." 

Lady  Phipps  looked  around  for  some  cause. 

"  It  may  be  this  plateau  of  flowers,  they  are  unusually 
fragrant  this  morning,"  she  said,  looking  around  for  a  ser 
vant  to  carry  away  the  roses,  which  Norman  had  gathered, 
from  the  table. 

"  Let  me — let  me  !"  cried  Elizabeth  Pan-is,  seizing  upon 
the  flowers,  and  carrying  them  off  to  her  room.  She 
would  not  have  bad  a  leaf  touched  by  one  of  the  servants 
for  the  universe. 

Norman  followed  her  with  his  eyes,  smiled  with  quiet 
satisfaction,  when  he  saw  her  stoop  fondly  and  inhale  the 
breath  of  the  roses  as  she  went  up-stairs,  then,  leaning  to 
wards  Lady  Phipps,  he  said,  in  a  low  voice, 

"  The  old  man  was  her  father  !" 

"What!  Samuel  Parris  ?  and  pass  by  this  house  ?"  ex 
claimed  the  lady  in  astonishment.  "  This  is  a  strange 
thing,  Sir  William." 

"  It  is  strange — very  strange,"  answered  the  governor, 
rising.  "  I  will  seek  our  old  friend  and  reason  with 
him." 

"And   I,"  said  his  wife.  "  will   seek  out  the' stranger. 


64:      A     GUIDE     TO     THE     FARM-HOUSE. 

Goody  Brown  is  a  kind  woman,  but  the  poor  lady  may 
not  obtain  all  she  needs  in  the  farm-house.  Did  you  hear 
her  name,  Lovel  ?" 

"  No,"  answered  the  youth,  with  unaccountable  hesita 
tion  ;  "  but  you  will  flnd  it  embroidered  on  this  handker 
chief,  which  I  picked  up  on  the  beach  in  coming  along. 
The  cambric  is  wet  and  drenched  with  sand,  but  you  can 
perhaps  make  it  out." 

Lady  Phipps  took  the  handkerchief  and  examined  the 
embroidery.  "  A  coronet,"  she  muttered  :  "  this  looks 
well.  But  the  name — B — Barbara — Barbara  Stafford. 
Stafford — that  is  a  good  old  English  name.  Sir  William, 
I  will  surely  go  and  see  her." 


CHAPTER    VI. 

A   GUIDE   TO    THE    FARM-HOUSE. 

THE  next  day  after  her  spectral  shrouds  were  first  seen 
in  the  harbor,  the  good  ship  came  up  to  her  wharf. 
Among  the  first  passengers  that  landed  was  a  dark, 
foreign-looking  man,  apparently  somewhat  under  thirty 
years  of  age.  He  stood  upon  the  wharf  with  a  small 
leathern  bag  in  his  hand,  as  if  uncertain  where  to  go ; 
but  his  eyes,  black  as  rnidnightT Tind  splendid  as  diamonds, 
turned  excitedly  from  object  to  object,  as  if  he  took  a 
vivid  interest  in  every  thing  that  surrounded  him.  At 
last  they  fell  on  one  of  the  sailors  who  had  helped  Bar 
bara  Stafford  down  the  side  of  the  ship  that  stormy  after 
noon.  With  an  eager  step  he  approached  the  man. 


A     GUIDE     TO     THE     FARM-HOUSE.        65 

"  Have  you  heard  ?  did  the  boatmen  bring  hci  safe 
through  the  storm?"  he  questioned.  "The  lady — the 
lady  I  am  speaking  of.  Did  she  suffer  ? — is  she  safe  and 
well  ?" 

The  man  laughed.  "  She  is  safe  enough  in  Goody 
Brown's  farm-house,"  he  said,  "  and  well,  too,  if  the  souse 
she  got  in  the  water  didn't  give  her  a  cold.  But  it  was  an 
awful  tough  piece  of  work,  I  tell  you.  If  it  hadn't  been 
for  that  old  man,  who  didn't  seem  to  have  so  much  in 
him,  for  he  was  thin  as  a  shad,  they  would  all  have 
gone  to  Davie's  locker,  sure  as  a  gun.  You  never  in 
your  born  days  saw  such  a  tusscl  as  they  had  with  the 
breakers  the  boatmen  say." 

"  Then  she  is  safe  and  well ;  for  that  God  be  thanked," 
said  the  stranger,  turning  away.  "  What  more  have  I 
to  ask  or  do  ?" 

Pie  spoke  sadly,  and  his  fine  eyes  filled  with  mist. 
Then  he  turned,  and  giving  the  man  a  piece  of  money, 
asked  him  to  show  the  way  to  Goody  Brown's  farm 
house. 

After  dropping  the  crown  piece  into  his  pocket,  the 
man  turned  up  the  wharf,  and  walked  on  side  by  side 
with  the  stranger. 

"  Seems  to  me  you're  a  stranger  in  these  parts ;  never 
was  to  Boston  afore,  I  reckon?"  he  said,  dropping  into  an 
old  habit  of  asking  questions  with  unconscious  imperti 
nence. 

"  You  are  mistaken.  I  have  been  here  before,"  an 
swered  the  stranger,  and  a  wild  fire  lighted  up  his  face. 
"Years  ago  I  left  that  wharf  a — a — but  I  have  come 
back.  The  world  shall  know  that  I  have  come  back." 

The  sailor  looked  at  him  with  open  astonishment. 

"Why  what  on  earth  are  you  so  mad  about  I  should 


66       A     GUIDE     TO     THE     FARM-HOUSE. 

like  to  know  ?"  he  said.  "  I  hain't  done  nothing  to  set 
you  off  in  a  tantrum,  have  I  now  ?" 

The  stranger  smiled. 

"You  have  done  nothing,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  so  gentle 
that  the  man  stared  again,  bewildered  by  the  sudden 
change.  "  I  was  talking  to  myself  rather  than  you." 

"That's  a  queer  idea,  but  I've  beam  people  do  sich 
things  afore  ;  it  was  in  foreign  parts,  though.  We  talk 
like  folks  in  Boston  now  I  tell  you,  straight  out  and  up  to 
the  mark.  But  forriners  will  be  forriners,  there's  no  help 
ing  it.  Now  what  is  it  you  want  up  to  Goody  Brown's, 
if  I  may  be  so  bold  ?  Is  the  lady  up  there  any  relation 
of  yourn  ?" 

Again  the  stranger  smiled. 

"  My  friend,  you  are  rather  bold." 

"  Ain't  I,"  answered  the  man  with  great  self-com 
placency.  "  That's  the  way  we  Bosting  folks  come  to 
know  more  than  other  people.  Ain't  afeared  to  ask  ques 
tions.  Every  man  conies  right  up  to  his  tiuty  on  that 
pint  without  flinching.  But  you  hain't  told  me  yet  if  the 
lady  is  a  relation  or  not  ?" 

"  No,  she  is  not  related  to  me." 

"  Only  come  over  in  the  same  ship  ?  I  reckoned  so, 
seeing  as  she  was  a  cabin  passenger  and  you  al'es  kept 
so  snug  in  the  steerage.  Never  saw  you  on  deck  in  my 
life  till  long  after  dark.  Don't  think  she  ever  sot  eyes  on 
you  the  hull  vi'age  ?" 

"No,  she  never  did." 

"  Now  that's  something  like  ;  can  answer  a  fair  ques 
tion  when  you  want  to,  can't  you  ?  But  what  do  you  go 
and  see  her  now  for  ?  Couldn't  you  a  got  acquainted  on 
ship  board  if  you  had  wanted  ter  ?" 

"  Who  told  you  that  I  did  wish  to  see  her  ?"  answered 


A     GUIDE     TO     THE     FARM-HOUSE.       67 

the  stranger,  a  little  impatiently.  "  Not  I,  that  is  cer 
tain." 

"  Then  it  ain't  her  you're  going  to  see  ?"  answered  the 
man,  in  an  injured  tone,  as  if  his  time  had  been  cruelly 
trifled  with.  "  Well,  maybe  it's  Goody  Brown  you're 
related  to,  arter  all.  Don't  look  like  it,  though,  but 
stranger  things  than  that  has  happened.  She  has  a  sight 
of  cousins  in  the  old  country." 

The  stranger  grew  impatient.  He  turned  upon  the 
man  almost  fiercely,  his  eyes  flashing  fire,  his  teeth 
gleaming  through  the  lips  lifted  from  them  in  a  haughty 
curve. 

"  Be  quiet,  man,  you  offend  me." 

"  Wheu  !"  ejaculated  the  sailor,  picking  up  a  bit  of 
shingle  from  the  ground,  and  searching  for  a  jackknife 
which  jingled  against  the  silver  crown  in  his  pocket,  "get 
ting  riley,  now,  ain't  you  ?" 

The  fellow's  imperturbability  was  so  comical  that  no  re 
sentment  could  withstand  it.  The  stranger's  face  cleared 
up,  and  he  watched  his  companion  with  disdainful  curi 
osity,  who  began  whittling  his  shingle  as  he  walked 
along. 

"Goody  Brown  isn't  your  nigh  relation,  then,"  he  per 
sisted,  whittling  on  with  infinite  composure  ;  "  cousin  to 
your  par  or  mar,  mebby  ?" 

"  Goody  Brown  is  nothing  to  me,  understand  that !" 
cried  the  stranger,  at  last  harrassed  into  submission  ;  "  but 
I  am  weary  of  salt  food,  and  want  a  draught  of  fresh 
milk.  This  is  the  nearest  farm-house,  you  tell  me  ;  so  I 
ask  you  to  lead  me  there." 

"  And  you  don't  want  to  see  the  lady  ?" 

"No  I" 

"  And  she  ain't  nothing  particular  to  you  ?"    • 


68       A     GUIDE     TO     THE     FARM-HOUSE. 

"  Nothing  in  any  way." 

"Well,  now,  I  never  did  1  Why  couldn't  you  say  so, 
to  once  ?"  cried  the  man,  in  a  tone  of  plaintive  reproach. 
"  What  is  the  use  of  taking  so  many  bites  of  i  cherry  I 
want  ter  know  ?" 

"  Is  that  the  farm-house  ?"  inquired  the  stranger,  point 
ing  to  the  low  stone  dwelling  sheltered  in  noble  trees  th.U 
overlooked  the  harbor. 

"  Yes,  that's  Goody  Brown's,  I  reckon." 

The  stranger  stopped  short. 

"  You  may  return  now.     I  can  make  my  way  alone." 

The  sailor  seemed  a  little  disappointed,  but  he  kept  on 
whittling,  and  only  answered  : 

"  Wai,  jest  as  you're  a  mind  ter  ;  but  I  kinder  reckon 
you'll  miss  it  in  the  long  run." 

"  Miss  it,  how  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  nothing  particular,  only  the  streets 
of  Boston  are  rather  sarpentiue  for  strangers,  and  I  kinder 
feel  as  if  I  hadn't  more  'en  half  arned  my  money  yet." 

The  stranger  fell  into  thought  a  moment  and  then  an 
swered  cheerfully : 

"  You  are  right,  my  good  fellow,  I  shall  want  a  guide. 
Stay  hero  and  take  charge  of  my  bag  till  I  come  back  ; 
then  we  will  return  to  the  town  together." 

The  sailor  sat  down  on  a  rock,  and  placing  the  leathern 
bag  at  his  feet  kept  on  whittling  with  an  energy  that 
would  have  seemed  spiteful  but  for  his  unmoved  features. 
The  traveller  left  him  and  walked  forward  toward  the 
farm-house.  Goody  Brown  was  in  her  hand-loom  weav 
ing  a  piece  of  linen  from  the  yarn  she  had  spun  a  year 
before.  Her  rather  trim  feet,  cased  in  calf-skin  shoes  and 
yarn  stockings,  even  as  her  daily  toil  could  make  them, 
were  rising  and  falling  on  the  treadles  with  monotonous 


A     GUIDE     TO     THE     FARM-HOUSE.       69 

jerks.  She  leaned  over  from  her  seat  in  front  of  the  huge 
loom,  throwing  her  shuttle  through  the  web  with  such 
earnest  industry  that  every  ten  minutes  the  sharp  click  of 
the  turning  cloth-beam  proclaimed  her  progress.  Directly 
the  heaclles — or  harness,  as  she  called  it — would  groan 
and  struggle  from  the  renewed  tread  of  her  feet,  while  the 
flight  of  the  shuttle,  the  bang  of  the  laith,  and  the  thud 
of  the  treadles  made  such  household  music  as  the  women 
of  New  England  gloried  in.  She  was  busy  fitting  a  quill 
into  her  shuttle  when  a  strange  form  darkened  the  open, 
door.  But  her  heart  was  in  her  work,  and  she  drew  the 
thread  through  the  eye  of  her  shuttle  with  a  quick  breath 
and  a  motion  of  the  tongue  before  she  looked  directly  that 
way.  Then  she  saw  a  remarkably  handsome  young  man 
standing  upon  the  threshold,  holding  his  cap  in  one  hand 
as  if  she  bad  been  an  empress  on  her  throne. 

"Madam." 

"  Did  you  mean  me  ?"  said  Dame  Brown,  laying  down 
her  shuttles,  and  tightening  the  strings  of  her  linsey- 
woolsey  apron.  "  Did  you  mean  me,  sir  ?" 

"  Yes,  if  you  are  the  mistress  of  this  house." 

"  For  want  of  a  better,"  answered  the  dame,  drawing 
herself  up  primly. 

"  I — I  am  a  stranger  Have  just  come  over  in  the  ship 
which  landed  to-day." 

"  What,  another !"  said  Goody  Brown,  coming  slowly 
out  of  her  loom.  "  I  had  the  hull  house  full  last  night." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  incommode  you,  my  good  lady,  only 
to  inquire  about  those  who  set  out  so  rashly  in  the  boat 
before  we  came  up  to  the  wharf.  They  were  all  brought 
here.  I  am  told." 

"  Well,  yes,  I  had  a  houseful  of  'em  overnight,  but  thia 
morning  they  were  well  enough  to  go  away." 


70       A     GUIDE     TO     THE     FARM-HOUSE. 

"  What,  all  ?" 

"  All  but  the  lady  ;  she's  completely  tuckered  out,  and 
won't  get  out  of  her  bed  to-day,  I  reckon." 

"  But  she  is  not  seriously  hurt  ?"  cried  the  man,  almost 
gasping  for  breath. 

"  No,  I  guess  not ;  only  kinder  worn  out.  The  yarb 
tea  has  done  her  a  sight  of  good." 

The  stranger  looked  at  her  eagerly  as  she  spoke.  A 
dozen  questions  seemed  trembling  on  his  lips  ;  but  he  re 
strained  them,  only  saying,  in  a  voice  that  would  tremble 
in  spite  of  his  efforts, ' 

"  Then  you  are  certain  that  she  is  out  of  danger  ?" 

"  Sartin,  of  course.  She'll  be  chirk  as  a  bird  to 
morrow." 

The  stranger  sat  down  in  the  chair  which  the  dame 
offered  while  she  was  speaking.  A  bowl  of  warm  bread 
and  milk  stood  on  the  kitchen  hearth,  close  by  the  fire. 
Goody  Brown  took  it  up. 

"  I've  got  to  take  this  in,  for  she's  getting  hungry,  but 
I  won't  be  gone  more'n  a  minute." 

With  this  half  apology,  the  good  woman  opened  a  side 
door  and  went  into  Barbara  Stafford's  room.  The  man 
looked  after  her  with  eyes  full  of  impatient  yearning. 
He  rose  from  his  chair  and  stole  softly  toward  the  door, 
listening;  but  no  sound  answered  his  expectations,  and 
he  had  scarcely  returned  to  bis  seat  when  Goody  Brown 
came  back  with  the  bowl  of  bread  and  milk  in  her  hand. 
She  sat  it  down  in  the  hearth,  and,,  turning  to  her  visitor, 
said,  in  a  half  whisper, 

"  She's  sound  asleep." 

"  Madam,"  said  the  traveller,  "  will  you  give  me  a  cup 
of  milk  ?  I  have  been  so  long  at  sea — " 

"  Well,  now,  I  shouldn't  wonder  !"  cried  the  dame,  iu- 


A     GUIDE     TO     THE     FARM-HOUSE.       71 

terrupting  him.  "  I'll  go  right  down  to  the  spring-house 
and  get  it." 

She  took  a  pitcher  from  the  table  and  went  out.  The 
moment  her  shadow  left  the  threshold  stone  the  young 
man  started  up  and  softly  opened  the  door  of  Barbara 
Stafford's  room.  He  paused  a  moment,  with  the  latch  in 
his  hand,  hesitating  and  breathless,  for  the  lady  lay  before 
him  in  a  profound  sleep.  The  face  was  turned  toward 
him ;  one  hand  rested  under  her  cheek,  the  other  fell  upon 
the  blue  and  white  counterpane.  Her  thick  golden  hair 
rolled  in  coils  and  waves  over  the  pillow. 

The  young  man's  eyes  grew  misty,  the  breath  broke  al 
most  iu  a  sob  on  his  lips.  He  crept  softly  toward  the 
bed,  fell  upon  his  knees,  and  gazed  upon  the  lady  with 
passionate  sorrow  that  might  have  disturbed  an  angel  in 
its  first  heavenly  rest.  But  she  did  not  move.  The  deep 
slumber  of  exhaustion  held  her  faculties  locked.  A  coil 
of  hair,  loosened  by  its  own  weight,  rolled  downward  and 
swept  across  her  arm.  Still  she  did  not  move.  He 
gathered  the  tresses  gently  between  his  hands,  laid  them 
against  his  cheek,  and  pressed  wild  kisses  upon  them. 
Thon  he  heard  a  sound.  It  was  Goody  Brown's  footsteps 
coming  up  from  the  spring-house.  With  rash  despera 
tion  he  took  that  white  hand  in  his,  covered  it  with  kisses 
soft  as  the  fall  of  thistledown,  dropped  it  and  glided  from 
the  room. 

(roody  Brown  found  her  guest  sitting  in  his  old  place 

near  the  fire,  looking  grieved  and  sad,  but  with  a  warm 

flush  on  his  cheeks.     He  took  the  milk  that  she  offered  ; 

drank  a  little,  it  seemed  with  difficulty,  and,  laying  a  piece 

_pf  money  on  the  table,  turned  to  go. 

"  If  you'd  jest  as  lieves  wait  a  minit,"  said  the  house 
wife,  blushing  like  a  girl.  "  I  hain't  had  a  chance  to  ask 


72       A     GUIDE     TO     THE     FARM-HOUSE. 

a  single  question.  They  all  went  off  so  sudden ;  but  my 
old  man  was  aboard  the  vessel." 

"What,  your  husband  ?" 

"  Jes  so,  Jason  Brown;  mebby  you  know  something 
about  him  ?" 

The  stranger  gave  a  glance  at  the  person  he  had  left 
whittling  in  the  far  distance  and  smiled  uneasily. 

"  Yes,  I  know  him,"  he  said.  "  He  came  safely  ashore 
with  the  ship." 

"  Then  she*s  got  to  the  wharf  ?"  questioned  the  woman. 

"Yes." 

"  Then  he'll  be  along  by-and-by,"  said  the  wife,  ashamed 
of  taking  so  much  interest  in  the  subject.  "  Much  obleeged 
to  you  for  telling  me." 

Thus  dismissed  the  stranger  left  the  house  and  went 
back  to  the  place  where  he  had  left  Jason  Brown. 

"Wai, "said  that  composed  personage,  "I  hope  you  got 
a  drink  of  milk  worth  having." 

"  Yes ;  but  why  did  you  not  tell  me  that  the  woman 
was  your  wife  ?"  answered  the  stranger. 

"  Cause  you  didn't  ask  me.  But  how  is  the  old  wo 
man  ?" 

"  She  seems  well  and  was  very  kind." 

"Wimmeu  are  kind  by  natur,"  said  the  sailor,  shutting 
his  jackknife  with  a  jerk,  the  only  sign  of  impatience  yet 
visible.  "  But  I  reckon  I'll  jest  step  in  and  see  how  she 
gets  along,  if  you  don't  want  me  tu  go  about  Boston  streets 
with  you  right  away." 

"  No,  no.  I  shall  not  remain  in  Boston,  and  can  find 
plenty  of  guides  where  I  am  going." 

"  Don't  want  me  to  carry  this  ere  bag  for  you,  nor 
nothin'  ?"  asked  the  man  a  little  anxiously,  as  he  gave  up 
the  traveller's  bag. 


A     GUIDE     TO     THE     FARM  -HOUSE.       73 

"  No,  no ;  I  prefer  to  carry  it  myself.  But  you  are 
master  of  that  house  ?" 

"Yes,  generally;  when  my  wife  ain't  to  Lome." 

"In  that  case  I  have  some  boxes  on  board  the  ship, 
and  should  like  to  place  them  under  your  care  for  a  few 
weeks,  could  they  be  moved  to  your  house." 

'  Jes  so,"  answered  Brown. 

"  Then  take  charge  of  them.  I  will  leave  an  order  on 
board  the  ship." 

"Jes  so." 

"And  pay  you  well  for  the  trouble  now  in  advance." 

"  Jes  so,"  answered  Brown,  holding  out  his  hand  for 
the  money.  "  Now,  if  you've  no  objections,  I'll  go  up  to 
the  house,  for  I'm  afeared  the  old  woman  will  be  kinder 
expecting  me." 

The  stranger  took  his  leathern  bag  from  the  ground  and 
walked  one  way,  while  Jason  Brown  went  to  the  farm 
house  ;  not  rapidly,  for  he,  too,  was  ashamed  of  being  in 
a  hurry  to  see  his  wife  ;  but  with  a  step  that  would  grow 
quick  and  impatient  spite  of  his  philosophy. 

"  Jason,  is  that  you  ?"  cried  Goody  Brown,  getting  out 
of  her  loom  and  meeting  her  husband  half  way  to  the 
door.  "  How  have  you  been  ?" 

"  Tough  and  hearty  ;  but  where's  the  children  ?  I  don't 
see  no  cradle  nor  trundle  bed." 

The  wife  did  not  speak,  but  began  twisting  the  strings 
of  her  apron  over  her  finger.  Jason  looked  at  her  ear 
nestly.  He  saw  a  single  tear  drop  to  her  bosom  and 
sink  into  the  cotton  kerchief  folded  over  it. 

"  Jason,  they're  both  gone.  The  trundle  bed  is  took 
down  and  the  cradle  is  up  in  the  garret." 

"  Gone,  Prudence,  gone  !     Where  ?" 

"  Dead,  Jasqn.     They  both  died  of  fever  in  one  week." 


74  THE     UNEXPECTED     VISITOR. 

Another  tear  came  rolling  down  that  still  face  and  fel 
upon  a  great  horny  hand  which  was  held  out  to  take  that 
of  the  woman.  Those  two  hard-working  hands  shook  in 
each  other's  clasp  a  moment,  then  Jason  Brown  drew  his 
gently  away  and  left  the  house.  He  wandered  down  to 
the  shore,  seated  himself  upon  the  turf  of  a  broken  bank, 
and  took  from  his  pocket  the  jackknife  and  piece  of  wood 
that  he  had  stowed  away  there.  He  opened  his  knife 
with  dismal  slowness  and  gave  a  whistle  which  at  once 
resolved  itself  into  a  low  wail  inexpressibly  sad.  Then 
the  knife  and  the  wood  dropped  from  his  hands,  and  he 
sat  still,  looking  at  them  helplessly,  while  great  tears 
rolled  down  his  cheeks. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

•  THE   UNEXPECTED   VISITOR. 

FOR  two  whole  days  Barbara  Stafford  did  not  leave  her 
bed.  She  was  exhausted  by  a  long  sea-voyage,  and  sad 
dened  by  many  an  anxious  day  and  night,  which  had 
made  her  passage  a  wretched  one.  So  she  lay  still  and 
tried  to  rest,  that  she  might  gather  strength  to  meet 
the  destiny  that  lay  before  her,  whatever  that  destiny 
might  be. 

Meantime  the  ship  was  being  unloaded.  Trunks  and 
packages,  marked  by  the  stranger's  name,  somewhat  os 
tentatiously  it  would  seem,  were  conveyed  from  its  cabin 
to  the  farm-bouse.  With  this  luggage  came  half  a  dozen 


THE     UNEXPECTED     VISITOR.  75 

great  boxes,  clamped  with  iron  and  securely  fastened, 
which  astonished  Jason  Brown  by  their  heaviness. 

These  boxes,  according  to  his  promise  given  the  dark- 
browed  stranger,  whom  he  had  guided  to  his  own  house, 
Jason  Brown  stowed  away  in  his  barn,  covering  them 
carefully  with  hay ;  for  there  was  a  mystery  in  their 
weight  which  made  him  anxious,  and  he  concealed  them 
conscientiously,  marvelling  what  they  contained  and  who 
their  owner  could  be. 

At  last  the  strange  lady  grew  restive  in  the  close  con 
finement  of  that  little  room.  She  arose  on  the  third 
morning  and  prepared  to  dress  herself.  She  was  seized 
with  a  desire  to  go  out  into  the  new  world,  to  learn  what 
it  had  of  good  or  evil  in  store  for  her.  Still  she  dreaded  to 
look  forth  and  see  that  great  monster  ocean  which  had 
hurled  her  to  and  fro  upon  the  fearful  heave  of  its  waves 
that  terrible  night.  She  had  been  here  received  on  that 
shore  with  a  tempest  that  had  almost  swallowed  her  up 
in  its  angry  whirlpools.  No  wonder  that  she  was  filled 
with  vague  dread,  and  hesitated  to  look  out  of  the  window, 
which,  curtained  with  morning-glory  vines,  framed  in  a 
splendid  view  of  the  ocean. 

For  a  time  she  stood  trembling  on  the  floor,  half  from 
weakness,  half  from  an  uncontrollable  dread  of  leaving  the 
quiet  pillow  on  which  supreme  fatigue  had  made  her 
slumber  sweet.  She  glanced  at  the  open  sash,  through 
which  the  sunshine  of  a  lovely  summer  morning  trembled. 
She  saw  the  purple  bells  of  the  morning-glory  vines  sway 
ing  to  and  fro  in  the  soft  wind  that  came  sighing  up  from, 
the  water,  while  drops  of  dew  fell  in  glittering  rain  from 
the  heart-shaped  leaves.  Alone  and  beyond  all  this  came 
the  gushing  song  of  birds,  as  it  were  hailing  her  with 
sweet  welcomes. 


76  THE     UNEXPECTED     VISITOR. 

Every  thing  out  of  doors  seemed  so  bright  that  Barbara 
Stafford  grew  strong  and  almost  cheerful.  She  was  now 
eager  to  go  forth  and  breathe  the  fresh  air. 

Out  of  the  baggage  brought  from  the  vessel  she  drew 
forth  a  dark  brocaded  silk,  adorned  at  the  neck  and  sleeves 
with  delicate  lace.  In  this  she  proceeded  to  dress  her 
self,  quit  unconscious  that  its  richness  was  out  of  keeping 
with  either  the  scene  or  her  present  habitation.  It  was 
the  costume  of  a  highly  bred  gentlewoman  of  her  own 
country,  and  from  mere  habit  she  put  it  on. 

The  exertion  brought  a  beautiful  color  to  her  cheeks. 
She  leaned  from  the  window  and  looked  out  fearlessly  on 
the  great  ocean  which  had  so  lately  threatened  her  life. 
It  lay  before  her  now  like  a  vast  field  of  azure,  turning  the 
sunshine  into  opals.  Spite  of  herself  she  turned  from  its 
treacherous  loveliness  with  a  shudder. 

Blessed  or  cursed — I  know  not  which  to  call  it — with 
that  exquisite  delicacy  of  sense  which  makes  the  most 
brilliant  mind  at  times  almost  a  slave  of  the  material,  she 
detected  among  all  the  perfumes  of  neighboring  woods  the 
faint  fragrance  of  a  sweetbriar  that  had  tangled  itself 
with  the  morning-glories,  and  blossomed  with  them.  She 
recognized  the  perfume.  Her  quick  mind  seized  upon 
this  as  an  omen. 

Strangely  arrayed,  it  must  be  confessed,  for  that  simple 
old  homestead,  Barbara  Stafford  went  through  the  kitchen, 
which  was,  for  the  moment,  empty,  and  wandered  around 
ai  angle  of  the  house  where  the" morning  sunshine  lay 
warmly  upou  an  old  stone  bench  half  buried  in  the 
grass. 

Here  she  sat  down,  for  the  exertion  of  dressing  had 
wearied  her.  The  ai^was  sweet  and  balmy,  just  bright 
ened  with  a  breeze  from  the  distant  sea,  and  a  pretty  little 


THE     UNEXPECTED     VISITOR.  77 

opening  of  cultivated  fields,  separated  from  her  by  a  rail 
fence,  lay  dreamily  at  her  left. 

Barbara,  longed  to  go  forth  into  the  shade  of  those 
mammoth  trees,  which  filled  the  distance  with  their  green 
leafiness,  and  under  their  shelter  look  out  upon  the  New 
World  ;  but  a  gentle  lassitude  lay  upon  her,  and,  while 
she  desired  exertion,  her  limbs  remained  passive — they 
had  not  yet  shaken  off  the  numbing  effects  of  the  storm. 

She  sat  dreamily  looking  forth  with  the  sunshine  play 
ing  among  the  waves  of  her  golden  hair,  and  revealing 
every  line  and  shadow,  on  a  singularly  delicate  face, 
which  had  carried  the  complexion  of  infancy  almost  into 
middle  age.  The  rich  scarf,  which  she  had  flung  over 
her  in  coming  forth,  fell  softly  downward,  and  swept  the 
grass  with  its  gorgeous  folds.  She  was  conscious  of 
nothing  but  a  sensation  of  pleasure  at  seeing  the  beautiful 
earth  again  after  a  dreary,  dreary  voyage  across  tho 
ocean. 

As  she  sat  there,  the  noise  of  hoofs  on  the  broken  road, 
leading  from  town,  had  no  power  to  arrest  more  than  a 
passing  thought.  This  was  followed  by  a  slight  rustle 
of  silks,  and  directly  a  lady,  dressed  somewhat  after  her 
own  fashion,  came  through  an  opening  in  the  fence,  and 
walked  gracefully  forward  to  where  Barbara  Stafford  was 
sitting. 

"  I  beg  ten  thousand  pardons,  madam,  but  Goody 
Brown  is  nowhere  to  be  seen,  and  I  am  compelled  to 
introduce  myself,"  she  said,  with  a  charming  little  laugh. 
"  I  know  at  a  glance  that  you  are  the  lady  I  am  in  search 
of;  and  I  —  really  it  is  awkward  —  but  I  am  Lady 
Phipps." 

Barbara  Stafford  gave  a  sudden  start.  Her  large,  gray 
eyes  grew  wild  and  black ;  slowly  and  steadily  her 


78  THE      UNEXPECTED     VISITOB. 

features  shrunk  together  ;  and  making  a  faint  movement 
with  one  hand,  as  if  to  catch  at  something,  she  struggled 
to  arise,  but  fell  senseless  at  her  visitor's  feet. 

When  Barbara  Stafford  arose  from  the  stone  bench 
against  which  she  had  fallen,  there  was  pallor  on  her 
cheek,  and  bewilderment  in  her  eyes,  deeper  and  more 
painful  to  behold  than  is  usual  after  a  mere  fainting-fit. 
Lady  Phipps  observed  the  pallor  increase,  and  that  she 
shrunk  back  with  a  shudder  from  the  arm  which  was 
striving  to  support  her. 

"  My  dear  madam,  you  are  not  well ;  you  suffer,"  said 
the  kind  matron,  coloring  slightly  as  she  felt  the  thrill  of 
repulsion.  "  Let  me  help  you  into  the  house." 

"  No,"  answered  Barbara,  sweeping  one  hand  across 
her  forehead  three  or  four  times,  while  her  eyes  were 
fastened  on  Lady  Phipps  with  a  troubled,  wistful  look, 
as  if  she  had  not  really  seen  her  features  before.  "  I 
think—" 

She  paused,  turned  her  eyes  away  from  the  face  she 
had  been  searching,  and  a  spasm  of  pain  swept  over  her 
forehead,  drawing  the  brows  together  with  an  unmis 
takable  sign  of  acute  sensibility.  She  looked  up  again, 
etriving  to  smile. 

"Ah,  now  1  remember.  Yes,  I  am  sometimes  subject 
to  these  turns — it  is  very  girlish  and  weak,  no  doubt,  but 
the  long  sea-voyage,  the  storm — do  not  mind  me,  lady,  I 
am  well  now ;  quite  well  and  strong.  Forgive  me,  but" 
— again  she  broke  off,  pressed  orie-  hand  hard  against  her 
side,  and  said,  with  a  quick  catch  of  the  breath,  "Lady 
Phipps — did  you  say  that  Lady  Phipps  had  done  me  this 
honor  ?" 

"Yes;  I  was  about  to  give  my  name,  when  you  were 
seized  with  this  terrible  fainting-fit.  The  governor  is  so 


THE      UNEXPECTED      VISITOR.  79 

much  occupied  just  now  that  he  could  not  come  himself, 
though  he  was  deeply  interested  in  your  condition.  I 
assure  you  I  really  could  hardly  keep  from  embracing  that 
dear  youug  Lovel  for  his  bravery  in  rescuing  you  from 
the  foundered  boat." 

"Youug  Lovel!"  repeated  Barbara,  quickly  ;  "young 
Lovel  1  Is  that  his  name  ?" 

"  Of  course  you  could  not  be  expected  to  know  any 
thing  about  names ;  but  you  will  remember  the  young 
man  who  nearly  lost  his  own  life  in  dragging  you  from 
the  water  ?" 

"  Remember  him  !  oh,  yes." 

"And  the  dear  old  minister,  brother  Parris,  with  his 
mild,  quiet  ways — to  think  that  he  should  have  been  in 
Boston  for  the  first  time  in  years,  just  to  help  save  you ; 
it  seems  quite  like  a  miracle,  or  a  bit  of  the  witchcraft 
that  is  so  fashionable  just  now." 

"  Parris — Parris  !"  repeated  Barbara,  with  a  laboring 
breath. 

"That,"  said  Lady  Phipps,  "was  the  name  of  the  tall 
gentleman  ;  an  old  friend  of  Sir  William's ;  indeed,  the 
very  man  whose  benediction  made  me  his  wife." 

The  hand  which  Barbara  had  again  lifted  to  her  fore 
head  dropped  slowly  down ;  her  lips  looked  cold  and 
blue,  but  she  stood  up  firmly,  and  excepting  one  wild 
glance  over  her  shoulder,  as  if  impelled  to  flee,  kept  her 
ground,  though  for  an  instant  she  seemed  turning  into  a 
statue.  After  a  little,  she  looked  up  with  one  of  those 
gentle  smiles,  with  which  the  most  refined  anguish  seeks 
to  clothe  itself  before  the  world,  and  said  : 

"  You  are  very  kind,  my  lady,  and  I  am  not  ungrateful 
But  since  I  came  to  this  land  every  thing  seems  like  a 
dream.  Indeed,  my  voyage  itself  is  more  like  a  vision 


80  THE     UNEXPECTED     VISITOR. 

than  reality;  in  a  little  time  I  can  better  express  myself. 
Will  you  be  seated  here,  in  the  morning  sunshine  ? — it  is 
very  pleasant,  or  seemed  pleasant  a  little  while  ago — or 
would  you  prefer  to  sit  in- doors  ?  My  good  friends  here 
have  given  me  a  tolerably  pretty  room,  and  will  make 
Lady — Lady  Phipps  very  welcome." 

She  spoke  the  lady's  title  with  the  same  quick  gasp  that 
had  marked  her  utterance  before,  and  again  the  shudder 
ran  through  her  form. 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  let  us  go  in-doors  ;  then  you  can  lie  down 
quietly,  or  sit  in  an  easy-chair,  while  I  do  my  little 
errand  more  ceremoniously,  for  to  speak  the  truth  you 
look  very  palo  yet.  Take  my  arm ;  indeed  you  can 
hardly  walk." 

Barbara  only  bowed  ;  she  could  not  force  herself  to 
touch  the  lady's  arm,  but,  with  a  will  that  was  like 
strength,  walked  into  the  house.  Lady  Phipps  followed 
her,  lifting  the  skirt  of  her  dress  daintily  from  the  grass, 
and  smiling  with  a  sort  of  puzzled  air,  as  if  she  did  not 
quite  understand  the  scene  she  was  acting  in. 

Barbara  entered  her  own  room,  which  was  the  best 
apartment  in  the  house,  and  according  to  the  usages  of 
the  time,  furnished  with  a  high  bed,  covered  with  a  blue 
and  white  yarn  coverlet,  and  pillows  like  little  snow 
drifts.  A  bureau  of  cherry-tree  wood,  with  two  or  three 
stiff  wooden  chairs,  an  oaken  arm-chair  with  a  broad, 
splint  bottom,  stood  by  the  window,  with  its  curtain 
of  sweetbrier  and  morning-glory  vines.  This,  Barbara 
offered  to  her  visitor.  But  Lady  Phipps,  with  that  genial 
grace  which  made  every  action  of  hers  like  a  sunbeam, 
wheeled  the  chair  around,  and  motioned  that  Barbara 
should  occupy  it.  Then  she  seated  herself  on  the  bed, 


THE      UNEXPECTED     VISITOR.  81 

burying  one  elbow  in  the  snow  of  the  pillow,  and  droop 
ing  her  round  cheek  into  the  palm  of  her  hand. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  with  a  charming  smile,  "  that  we  are 
both  comfortable,  let  me  give  my  invitation  in  proper 
form.  First,  young  Lovel,  who  is  my  husband's  secretary, 
you  know,  or  are  now  informed,  has  set  the  whole  guber 
natorial  mansion  wild  about  you.  He  will  have  it — but 
no  matter  about  his  young  fancies — he  of  course  is  very 
anxious  that  you  should  not  suffer  inconvenience,  or 
remain  a  stranger  in  the  New  World,  where  Englishmen 
and  Englishwomen  should  meet  as  brothers  and  sisters. 
He  could  not  come  himself." 

"  I  trust — I  hope — that  the  young  gentleman  has  suf 
fered  no  injury  ?"  said  Barbara,  half  starting  from  the 
chair ;  while  for  the  first  time  Lady  Phipps  saw  the  color 
rush  to  her  face.  "  I  should  be  grieved." 

"  No  harm  in  the  world,"  said  Lady  Phipps,  laughingly 
interrupting  her ;  "  but  to  tell  you  the  truth,  he  was  so 
pleasantly  employed,  that  I  had  no  heart  to  bring  him 
away." 

Barbara  looked  up  with  a  questioning  glance  ;  a  grave 
smile  stole  over  her  lips,  and  she  said  very  quietly — 

"  Indeed  !  You  must  all  have  been  very  anxious  about 
him." 

"Anxious  !  You  never  saw  such  a  night !  None  of 
us  thought  of  rest.  The  governor,  whose  self-control  is 
the  admiration  of  everybody,  wandered  about  the  town 
all  night  long,  while  I  and  poor  little  Elizabeth  Parris — 
the  pretty  young  creature  I  hinted  at,  you  know — really 
fretted  ourselves  almost  into  hysterics.  Let  me  assure 
you,  upon  my  honor,  I  almost  knew  how  people  feel  when 
they  are  unhappy." 

"Almost!"   murmured    Barbara    Stafford,    lifting    her 


82  THE     UNEXPECTED     VISITOR. 

eyes  with  a  gleam  of  mournful  astonishment.     But  Lady 
Phipps  was  full  of  her  subject,  and  went  on. 

"  So,  after  we  had  welcomed  Norman  back  again,  arid 
petted  him  into  believing  himself  of  the  greatest  possible 
consequence,  I  came  off  here  to  beg  that  you  will  leave 
this  lonesome  old  place,  and  honor  Sir  William's  roof, 
while  it  shall  suit  your  convenience." 

"  But  I  am  a  stranger — even  a  nameless  one." 

"I  beg  your  pardon — not  altogether.  Sir  "William  has, 
as  you  know,  lived  a  good  deal  -in  England,  and  the 
Staffords,  of  Lincolnshire,  are  among  his  most  powerful 
friends." 

"  The  Staffords,  of  Lincolnshire  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  forget,  you  have  no  idea  how  we  found  out  tho 
name.  It  was  on  the  handkerchief  you  lost  in  the  sand. 
'  Barbara  Stafford,'  a  fine  old  name  that  my  husband  loves 
well." 

A  faint  smile  stole  over  the  strange  lady's  face,  but  she 
only  bent  her  head  in  acknowledgment  of  Lady  Phipps's 
kindness. 

"Your  name  alone  is  sufficient  introduction,  but  Sir 
William  is  curious  to  know  to  what  branch  of  the  family 
it  belongs — the  earl  ?" 

"  I  am  in  no  way  connected  with  the  Earl  of  Stafford," 
said  Barbara,  quickly;  "in  fact,  have  no  claim  upon  the 
hospitality  of  your — of  Sir  William  Phipps.  My  object 
in  coming  to  America  is  perhaps  already  accomplished. 
With  many  thanks  for  this  kindness,  I  must,  for  the 
present  at  least,  decline  your  invitation." 

Lady  Phipps  looked  a  little  disappointed.  She  was  so 
accustomed  to  having  her  own  way,  and  seeing  her 
very  caprices  regarded  as  a  law,  that  this  refusal  qf  tho 
stranger  to  become  her  guest  brought  the  color  to  her  brow. 


THE      UNEXPECTED     VISITOR.  83 

"  The  governor  will  be  greatly  disappointed,"  she  said, 
displacing  her  elbow  from  the  pillow  with  a  movement 
of  graceful  impatience.  "  I  really  shan't  know  what  to 
say.  Norman,  too,  will  be  quite  beside  himself.  They 
will  think  me  a  miserable  ambassadress  —  in  fact,  if 
any  thing  makes  me  ill-natured  and  awkward,  it  is  a 
refusal." 

Barbara  almost  smiled.  Notwithstanding  her  summer 
time  of  life,  there  was  something  very  attracting  in  Lady 
Phipps's  sparkling  manner,  which,  beneath  the  frank 
playfulness  of  a  child,  betrayed  all  the  dignity  of  a  proud 
woman. 

"It  is  not  a  refusal,"  said  Barbara,  gently;  "perhaps 
only  a  delay ;  but  just  now  I  am  too — too  weary  for 
society,  and  need  time  for  rest." 

"  Then  we  shall  yet  have  the  pleasure  ?"  exclaimed 
Lady  Phipps,  brightening,  and  holding  out  her  hand  ;  but 
she  became  grave  in  an  instant,  for  the  palm  that  met  hers 
was  cold  as  snow. 

"  You  are,  indeed,  quite  unfit  for  exertion,"  she  said. 

Barbara  drew  the  cold  hand  from  Lady  Phipps's  clasp, 
and,  standing  up,  looked  at  her  with  a  strained  gaze  as 
she  left  the  room.  The  moment  she  was  quite  alone, 
wrapped  up  in  the  stillness  of  an  empty  house,  the  pale 
woman  walked  forward  to  the  bed,  fell  upon  it  without  a 
breath  or  a  sob,  and  lay  motionless  with  her  face  to  the 
pillow. 

That  night,  after  all  the  family  were  asleep,  except 
Goody  Brown,  she  was  surprised  by  the  rustle  of  a  silk 
dress  at  her  elbow,  just  as  she  was  raking  up  the  kitchen 
fire  for  the  night.  She  turned  quickly,  and  saw  her  guest, 
who  stood  shivering  on  the  hearth  as  if  it  had  been  the 
depth  of  winter. 


84          THE      UNEXPECTED     VISITOR. 

"  Goodness  me  I"  exclaimed  the  housewife,  planting  her 
iron  shovel  with  a  plunge  into  the  ashes ;  "  I  thought 
you'd  gone  to  bed  long  ago.  Any  thing  the  matter  ?" 

"  Nothing — nothing  !"  answered  the  lady,  sinking  into 
one  of  the  straight-backed  chairs  that  stood  near  the 
hearth ;  "  I  heard  you  stirring,  and  so  came  out.  Sit 
dowu  a  little  while  ;  I  would  like  to  ask  a  few  questions 
about  this  new  country — about  Boston  and  its  people." 

Goody  Brown  seated  herself  on  the  dye-tub,  which 
occupied  a  corner  of  the  chimney,  and  smoothing  down 
her  checked  apron  prepared  to  listen.  She  was  no  great 
talker  at  any  time,  and  though  the  questions  asked  by  her 
guest  were  low-toned,  and  uttered  at  long  intervals,  she 
heard  them  patiently  and  answered  each  in  its  place, 
without  betraying  any  of  that  curiosity  said  to  be  charac 
teristic  of  the  New  England  matron  of  later  days. 

During  the  whole  conversation,  Barbara  sat  back  in  her 
chair,  quite  still,  gazing  upon  the  half-smothered  embers 
with  a  dull,  heavy  look.  The  tallow  candle,  with  its  long 
tow  wick,  that  occupied  a  little  round  stand  in  a  corner, 
left  her  face  in  the  shadow,  and  the  good  woman  remained 
quite  unconscious  how  pale  it  was  till  her  guest  arose  to 
say  good-night;  then  she  remembered  how  husky  her 
voice  had  been,  and  how  she  seemed  to  shiver  with 
cold. 

"  Do  let  me  rake  open  the  embers  and  give  you  a  bowl 
of  yarb  tea,  and  put  another  coverlet  on  the  bed,"  she 
urged,  in  her  stiff,  motherly  way  ;  "the  teeth  e'en  a'most 
chatter  in  your  head ;  you'll  sartinly  be  took  down  agin." 

"No,  no  I  I  shall  be  quieter  now  that  I  know — that  I 
know  all  about  the  country,  thank  you." 

And  with  a  soft,  gliding  step,  noiseless  as  when  she  en 
tered,  Barbara  went  into  her  room  again. 


THE     MINISTER     AND     HIS     PUPIL.       85 

"That's  strange,"  muttered  Goody  Brown,  as  she  sat 
before  the  buried  fire  with  a  foot  planted  on  each  andiron, 
meditating  on  the  conversation  she  had  just  held.  "  !Nk>w 
can  she  be  any  relative  to  the  governor  or  his  wife,  or  the 
Salem  minister,  I  wonder  ?  She's  mighty  curious  about 
them.  Well,  thank  goodness,  I'd  as  lief  tell  her  all  I 
know  about  'em  as  not.  There  ain't  no  witchcraft  in  the 
truth." 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

THE   MINISTER   AND   HIS   PUPIL. 

GOVERNOR  PHIPPS  and  Samuel  Parris  had  been  neigh 
bors  for  many  years.  They  had  known  each  other  when 
Parris  was  first  settled  over  the  church  in  Salem — a  man 
in  his  prime — and  the  governor  was  the  apprentice  of  a 
ship-builder  near  by.  More  than  this  ;  when  Phipps  was 
an  apprentice  and  a  dreamer,  as  all  men  of  great  capaci 
ties  are  at  some  period  of  their  lives,  thirsting  for  knowl 
edge  and  restive  as  a  wild  animal,  because  all  its  sources 
were  closed  to  him,  Samuel  Parris  received  the  lad  every 
night  beneath  his  roof,  and  spent  hours  and  hours  in 
teaching  him  those  rudiments  of  learning  which  are  the 
key  to  all  knowledge. 

Parris  had  been  an  enthusiast,  and  a  visionary  man 
from  his  youth  up.  lie  was  simple,  pious,  with  a  vein 
of  rich  poetry  in  his  nature  which  could  never  be  worked 
out  fully  in  the  pulpit,  but  was  concentrated  in  his  affec- 


86       THE     MINISTER     AND     HIS     PUPIL. 

tions,  and  sometimes  threatened  the  very  foundations  of 
his  understanding. 

The  predominance  of  a  vivid  imagination  over  faculties 
of  no  ordinary  stamp  kept  the  minister's  mind  out  of  bal 
ance,  and  made  his  life  an  unfinished  poem.  Had  all  the 
other  faculties  of  his  mind  been  equal,  Samuel  Parris  must 
have  been  a  great  poet  or  powerful  statesman.  Lacking  so 
much  and  possessing  so  much,  he  was  always  good,  affec 
tionate,  and  most  kind.  A  love  of  the  pure  and  beautiful 
possessed  him  so  entirely  that  it  broke  forth  in  veins  of 
exquisite  poetry  in  his  sermons,  and  at  times  gave  to  his 
conversation  an  eloquence  which  seemed  like  absolute  in 
spiration. 

Like  the  minister,  Phipps  had  much  rough  poetic  ore 
in  his  composition  ;  but  underneath  it  all  was  a  foundation 
of  hard,  practical  goDd  sense  :  he  reasoned,  while  the  min 
ister  dreamed.  The  poetry  in  his  nature  was  enough  to 
give  fire  and  energy  to  his  actions :  it  broke  out  through 
all  his  great  after-schemes  like  veins  of  gold  in  a  rock. 

But  in  this  man  all  the  faculties  came  up  and  mated  them- 
^elves  with  this  high  mental  element,  forming  a  most  vigor 
ous  mind,  and  a  will  which  nothing  could  conquer  when  set 
upon  a  right  object. 

Let  no  one  smile  when  I  speak  of  imagination  as  essen 
tial  to  real  greatness.  It  were  better  to  question  fairly 
if  absolute  greatuess  ever  existed  without  it.  This  high 
element  of  the  mind  is  as  necessary  to  a  superior  character 
as  observation.  It  gives  force  and  coloring  to  the  other 
faculties.  But  with  Phipps  alf-the  soul  traits  that  make 
up  a  great  character  rose  to  a  commanding  level,  urging 
the  imagination  to  useful  purposes,  as  machinery  turns  the 
beautiful  waterfall  into  a  mighty  power. 

Parris  was  a  hoarder  of  books,  rare  manuscripts,  and 


THE     MINISTER     AND     HIS     PUPIL.       87. 

even  old  newspapers,  which,  coming  from  over  sea,  were 
not  very  plentiful  in  the  colonies  in  those  days,  and  thus 
were  rendered  worthy  of  preservation.  It  was  in  this 
store  of  ancient  literature  that  the  lad  Phipps  took  his  first 
course  of  reading.  In  these  researches' — for  the  acute  lad, 
in  his  thirst  for  information,  devoured  every  scrap  of 
print  that  came  in  his  way — it  chanced  that  the  two  fell 
upon  an  old  paper,  which  gave  an  account  of  some  Spanish 
galley,  wrecked  years .  before  on  the  coast  of  La  Plata. 
Laden  with  fabulous  wealth,  in  silver,  and  jewels,  and 
gold,  this  galley  still  lay  in  the  depths  of  the  ocean.  They 
had  talked  the  matter  over,  Parris  as  he  would  have 
dwelt  upon  a  fairy  tale,  had  such  things  been  permitted 
to  his  creed  ;  Phipps  with  reflection  and  purposes,  for  the 
first  burning  thoughts  of  great  enterprise  rose  in  his  mind 
that  night.  • 

After  studying  the  old  newspaper  diligently  in  every 
word  and  syllable,  Phipps  left  Salem  and  took  up  his 
abode  in  Boston,  then  went  a  voyage  to  sea,  studying 
navigation  with  a  zeal  that  equalled  his  first  efforts  at 
reading. 

He  returned  to  the  colonies  in  the  first  strength  of  his 
youth,  taller  in  person,  and  with  a  dignity  of  carriage  that 
distinguished  him  all  his  days.  But  his  best  friends  knew 
little  of  his  purposes  now.  The  knowledge  which  he  had 
acquired  with  the  habit  of  concentrated  thought  had  lifted 
him  out  of  his  old  life.  The  very  acquirements  obtained 
at  so  much  cost,  while  they  exalted  him  in  the  estimation 
of  his  old  friends,  only  isolated  him  from  their  sympathies. 
Other  feelings  besides  ambition  may  have  stirred  in  the 
young  man's  heart  at  this  time ;  if  so,  but  one  human 
being  ever  became  his  confidant. 

Shortly  after  his  return  from  sea,  William  Phipps  came 


88       THE     MINISTER     AND     HIS     PUPIL. 

one  night  fifteen  miles  through  the  wilderness,  which  sep 
arated  Boston  from  Salem,  and  asked  an  interview  with 
his  old  friend. 

They  went  into  a  little  room,  the  scene  of  their  first 
studies,  and  conversed  long  and  earnestly  together.  The 
subject  of  this  conversation  no  one  knew.  The  Indian 
woman  in  the  kitchen  heard  her  master's  voice  more  than 
once,  rising  from  entreaty  to  expostulation,  but  she  took 
little  heed  of  the  matter,  as  arguments  between  the  youth 
and  his  teacher  often  arose  over  some  old  book  or  worn- 
out  manuscript,  which  they  chanced  to  be  studying 
together. 

But  one  thing  is  certain  ;  the  great  metaphysical  law  of 
life  prevailed  here.  The  strong  intellect  conquered  the 
weaker ;  and  when  William  Phipps  rode  away  in  the 
darkness,  it  was  with  a  certainty  that  his  iron  will  had 
prevailed  over  the  gentle  reasoning,  aye,  and  the  con 
science,  too,  of  his  kind  old  friend. 

No  human  being  but  the  Indian  woman  knew  a  word 
of  this  mystery,  if  mystery  there  was;  but  on  the  very 
next  night  she  heard  the  sound  of  hoofs  coming  rapidly 
through  the  woods,  and  knew  by  the  sudden  pause  that 
more  than  one  person  had  dismounted  before  her  master's 
house.  But  as  she  left  her  work  to  open  the  door,  Mr. 
Parris,  pale  and  excited,  met  her  in  the  passage,  and 
ordered  her  back  to  the  kitchen  in  a  voice  that  she  dared 
not  disobey. 

After  this  she  heard  the  continuous  movement  of  feet  in 
the  adjoining  room,  the  low  muttering  of  voices ;  then  her 
master  came  hurriedly  out,  asking  for  the  camphor  bottle 
which  she  found  in  a  corner  cupboard,  wondering  greatly 
what  he  could  want  of  it ;  but  he  took  the  flask  from  her 
hand  without  a  word  and  went  into  the  room  again. 


THE     MINISTER     AND     HIS     PUPIL.       89 

In  less  than  half  an  hurrr  she  heard  the  door  close,  and 
the  softened  tread  of  horses  returning  towards  the  woods 
along  the  forest  turf.  She  looked  out  of  the  kitchen 
window.  Two  persons  ou  horseback,  a  man  and  a  woman, 
were  riding  by.  The  moonlight  lay  full  upon  their  faces. 
That  of  the  man  she  did  not  regard,  for  the  loveliness  of 
the  young  girl,  around  whom  the  moonbeams  fell  in  lumi 
nous  clearness,  absorbed  all  her  faculties.  That  was  a 
face  to  be  remembered  forever,  as  we  think  of  angel  forms 
seen  in  dreams — a  haunting  face,  never  recognized  clearly 
if  seen  again  perhaps,  but  always  disturbing  the  memory. 
Old  Tituba  was  a  woman  to  ponder  over  that  face  when 
she  thought  of  the  great  Hunting  Grounds  of  her  people. 

After  this  she  heard  her  master  walking  all  night  long 
in  the  little  room,  back  and  forth,  back  and  forth,  till  day 
break. 

But  for  the  beautiful  face  Tituba  might  never  have  re 
membered  these  things  again,  though  any  event  became 
important  in  that  quiet  dwelling ;  but  on  the  very  next 
night,  just  at  the  hour  when  she  had  first  heard  the  sound 
of  hoofs  upon  the  highway,  there  came  from  the  walnut 
tree  that  overshadowed  the  minister's  dwelling,  a  low 
wailing  shout  that  rang  through  the  house  like  the  scoff 
•of  a  demon.  Tituba  went  out,  for  she  had  not  thought 
much  of  the  matter  and  had  no  reason  to  be  afraid,  and 
searched  among  the  walnut  tree  boughs  for  some  owl,  or 
other  wild  bird  with  a  hoarse  cry,  like  that  she  had  heard. 

The  moon  was  up,  a  round  harvest  moon,  with  a  mul 
titude  of  bright  stars  that  looked  down  into  the  bosom  of 
the  walnut  tree  ;  scattering  the  dense  shadows  every 
where  behind  the  branches.  But  the  Indian  woman  could 
discover  no  living  thing — nothing  but  the  soft  quiver  of 
leaves  and  the  starl!gbt  kissing  away  their  dew. 


90       THE     MINISTER     AND     HIS     PUPIL. 

She  went  in,  satisfied  that  the  noise  had  come  from  a 
passing  bird,  but  the  minute  the  wooden  latch  fell  from 
her  hand  closing  the  door,  the  cry,  hoarser  and  louder, 
ran  through  the  house  again.  Then  Tituba  began  to  be 
afraid.  She  had  heard  of  witchcraft,  and  believed  in  it, 
like  her  master,  and  all  the  wise  men  of  the  colony. 
From  that  hour  she  never  heard  a  hoof  upon  the  turf, 
though  it  were  only  that  of  a  young  fawn,  or  the  hoot  of 
an  owl  in  the  woods,  that  she  did  not  remember  what  she 
solemnly  believed  to  be  the  witch-gathering  in  her  master's 
study,  and  tremble  in  her  chimney  corner  till  it  had  passed 
away. 

After  this  time,  William  Phipps  went  forth  to  work  out 
his  ambitious  purposes,  and  Samuel  Parris  fell  back  into 
the  quiet  of  his  home,  a  little  troubled  at  times,  and  feel 
ing  the  need  of  extra  fasting  and  prayer,  but  the  same 
thoughtful,  studious  Christian  that  he  had  always  been. 

But  all  at  once,  when  he  was  on  the  very  verge  of  old 
age,  when  the  most  intense  affections  of  common  men 
soften  into  pleasant  habits,  this  man,  of  mature  years, 
uwoke  from  the  lethargy  of  a  life-time,  and  took  to  his 
bosom  a  fair  young  girl  of  bis  church,  an  orphan,  who  had 
been  cast  upon  its  charity,  and,  as  it  were,  led  by  heaven 
into  his  household.  It  was  a  sudden  act,  prompted  by 
the  buried  romance  which  had  so  long  slept  within  him, 
sure  to  find  utterance  at  some  period  of  his  life,  either 
through  the  intellect  or  the  affections. 

For  a  time  he  was  very  happy  and  forgot  every  thing, 
oven  heaven  itself,  in  the  company  of  his  beautiful  young 
wife,  who  loved  him  with  that  deep,  unselfish  love,  which 
partook  somewhat  of  veneration,  but  more  of  child-like 
gratitude. 

But  soon  the  old  man  grew  afraid  of  himself,  afraid  of 


THE     MINISTER     A  X  D     HIS     PUPIL.        91 

the  love  which  centred  entirely  around  that  young  crea 
ture,  bringing  her  like  an  unbidden  angel  between  his  very 
prayers  and  the  throne  of  grace.  Thus  his  life  was  spent 
between  fits  of  wild  devotion  and  paroxysms  of  remorse, 
lost  he  bad  become  an  idolater. 

Time  passed ;  it  was  more  than  twice  twelve  months 
before-  the  man  of  dreams  and  the  man  of  action  met 
again. 

The  one  was  absorbed  by  his  ambition,  the  other  had 
become  selfish  in  his  love  :  save  on  that  one  subject  he  had 
no  sympathy  to  give. 

But  as  time  glided  away,  leaving  the  hair  on  his  tem 
ples  whiter  and  whiter,  the  old  man  was  seized  with  an 
unaccountable  dread.  When  his  young  wife  in  all  the 
bloom  of  her  goodness  and  beauty  had  made  him  the 
father  of  a  daughter,  her  living  shadow,  vague,  dark 
apprehension  seized  upon  him,  and  weeks  before  that 
young  mother  sickened  and  died,  the  blackness  of  a  great 
sorrow  overshadowed  his  soul.  He  stood  by  her  grave 
and  saw  the  fresh  earth  heaped  upon  it,  and,  shaking  his 
venerable  white  head,  when  his  friends  would  have  con 
soled  him,  went  away  into  the  desolation  of  his  old  age, 
a,  broken-hearted  man,  weary  of  life,  and  yet  afraid 
to  die. 

He  believed  that  the  Divine  Father  had  cast  him  off  for 
bestowing  the  love  which  should  have  been  his  on  the 
beautiful  creature  who  was  gone,  and  that  for  this  sin  he 
must  wander  on  through  life  a  mark  of  divine  displeasure. 
So  he  withdrew  himself  even  from  his  best  friends,  for 
they  only  reminded  him  of  his  meek,  beautiful  wife  and 
his  own  idolatrous  sin. 

The  very  song  of  the  birds,  and  the  sight  of  the  green 
woods  added  to  bis  grief,  for  she  was  buried  in  spring- 


92       THE     MINISTER     AND     HIS     PUPIL. 

time,  when  all  the  trees  were  in  blossom,  and  the  wild 
birds  had  sung  sweetly  over  her  grave  while  they  were 
filling  in  the  earth  upon  her  coffin. 

Samuel  Parris  retreated  into  the  dreary  solitude  of  his 
home,  and  gave  up  his  life  to  his  daughter,  the  child  of 
his  old  age.  But  for  this  child  his  grief  would  have  been 
utter  despair,  for  every  breath  was  drawn  in  the  desola 
tion  of  a  widowed  heart.  If  he  went  to  the  fireside,  ojr 
the  table,  or  awoke  in  the  dead  of  night,  it  was  to  find  the 
solitude  of  the  grave  about  him.  Ilis  chamber,  dark  and 
heavy  with  the  atmosphere  of  death,  his  home,  his  very 
heart,  which  had  been  occupied  with  so  blessed  and  holy  a 
love  but  a  few  days  before,  desolated  forever. 

About  this  time  William  Phipps  sailed  for  England, 
became  captain  of  a  royal  ship,  then,  following  the  great 
idea  of  his  life,  sailed  for  La  Plata,  and  returned  home 
years  after,  rich  from  the  gold  and  silver  fished  up  from 
the  wreck  which  he  had  discovered  almost  by  a  miracle — 
with  a  title  of  honor,  no  inconsiderable  thing  at  any  time 
even  in  America — and  more  important  still,  accredited  by 
King  William  as  Governor  of  New  EnglanJ. 

A  few  months  after  bis  old  pupil  became  governor  of 
the  province,  Samuel  Parris  was  summoned  from  his 
hearth,  now  the  most  desolate  spot  on  earth  to  him.  His 
presence  was  required  in  Boston. 

He  set  forth  with  many  misgivings,  for  the  letter  came 
from  his  friend  and  pupil,  William  Phipps. 

The  house,  to  which  the  letter  directed  him,  bad  been 
the  residence  of  a  rich  merchant,  and  was  now  occupied 
by  his  young  widow ;  one  of  the  wealthiest  and  most 
beautiful  gentlewomen  of  the  province. 

Sir  William  Phipps  met  his  friend  at  the  door  of  this 
mansion.  The  minister  observed,  with  surprise,  that  the 


THE     MINISTER     A  X  D      HIS     PUPIL.      93 

house  was  thronged  with  company,  and  that  his  young 
friend  was  dressed  richly  ;  like  a  bridegroom  about  to 
appear  at  the  altar.  They  sat  down  together,  both  pale, 
and  the  minister  betraying  great  anxiety  both  in  his  look 
aud  manner.  Their  conversation  was  brief  and  earnest, 
but  they  spoke  in  undertones;  aud  the  lady  who  sat 
below,  in  her  bridal  garments,  wondered,  in  her  happi 
ness,  what  the  two  could  find  to  talk  about  so  long ;  for 
that  short  interview  seemed  an  age  to  her. 

They  came  down  at  last :  the  bridegroom  pale,  but 
composed  ;  the  minister  tremulous,  like  a  man  about  to 
undertake  some  painful  duty. 

The  marriage  oeremony  was  performed  which  made 
the  lady  we  have  seen  William  Phipps's  wife. 

Samuel  Parris  returned  home  more  thoughtful  than 
ever.  Indeed,  time  had  no  balm  for  this  old  man,  and 
but  for  his  lovely  child  he  must  have  withered  away  in 
unceasing  sorrow  for  his  wife  ;  in  remorse  for  the  sin,  as 
he  deemed  it,  of  loving  her  too  well. 

When  Sir  William  Phipps  heard  of  this,  his  heart  was 
touched  with  compassion  for  the  old  man,  who  had  un 
locked  the  golden  gates  of  knowledge  to  him,  and,  at  the 
suggestion  of  his  gentle  wife,  he  sent  an  urgent  request 
that  Elizabeth,  the  daughter  whose  education  had  been 
the  business  and  solace  of  the  old  man's  life,  should  spend 
a  portion  of  her  seventeenth  year  with  Lady  Phipps,  who, 
childless  herself,  would  become  a  second  mother  to 
her. 

It  was  like  a  new  death  for  the  old  man  to  part  with 
his  child,  but  he  saw  by  the  wistful  pleading  of  her  eyes, 
that  she  longed  to  see  something  of  the  bright  world,  and 
surrendered  her  to  the  servant  whom  Sir  William  Phipps 
had  sent  to  escort  her  to  Boston,  with  a  pang  almost  as 


94       THK     MINISTER     AND     HIS     PUPIL. 

great  as  that  with  which  he  had  consigned  her  mother  to 
the  grave. 

Through  all  the  blossom  season  of  the  year,  and  into 
midsummer,  Elizabeth  remained  with  her  new  friends. 
She  was  very  happy  ;  and  while  his  heart  yearned  for  her 
presence,  the  old  minister  forbore  to  press  her  return, 
or  to  inform  her  how  dreary  her  absence  had  rendered 
his  home.  But  at  last,  urged  on  by  some  impulse  which 
left  him  without  the  power  of  resistance,  though  he 
prayed  and  struggled  against  it  for  many  days,  the  old 
man  took  his  staff  and  went  all  the  way  on  foot  from 
Salem  to  Boston,  perhaps  to  see  his  child,  certainly  to 
look  upon  the  roof  that  covered  her,  and  to  breathe  the 
same  air  that  brought  bloom  and  beauty  to  her  young 
face. 

But  the  very  joy  that  filled  bis  being  as  he  came  nearer 
and  nearer  to  the  town,  admonished  him  how  completely 
his  love  had  gone  forth,  once  more,  to  a  being  perishable 
as  the  wife  be  mourned.  What  if  the  displeasure  of  God 
for  this  creature- worship  should  fall  upon  the  child  also  ? 
The  old  man's  soul  trembled  within  him  at  these  thoughts. 
He  dared  not  even  approach  the  house  where  his  child 
lived  ;  yet  he  wandered  with  irresistible  fascination  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  neighborhood,  longing  to  ask  the  passers- 
by  if  they  bad  seen  her,  but  never  venturing  to  unclose  his 
lips. 

Thus  the  old  man,  striving  against  the  best  feelings  of 
his  nature  as  a  sin  h;ul  ro:  med  forth  into  the  storm  of 
that  terrible  day,  and  he  now  wandered  about  in  the  sun 
shine  afraid  of  himself,  afraid  of  the  very  sight  of  his  own 
child,  yet  hovering  around  the  house  where  she  dwelt, 
like  a  wounded  bird  that  cannot  forsake  the  tree  where  its 
young  are  nested. 


THE      FORCED     S  A  C  K  A  AI  K  1ST  T.  96 

As  he  was  thus  upon  the  outskirts  of  the  grounds, 
Elizabeth  looked  forth  from  the  window  of  her  room,  and, 
uttering  a  cry  of  thrilling  joy,  that  had  so  often  made  the 
old  man  tremble,  as  he  thought,  with  forbidden  happi 
ness — "  My  father  !  Oh,  my  father  !" 


CHAPTER    IX. 

THE   FORCED    SACRAMENT. 

IT  was  the  Sabbath — that  solemn  day  in  the  colonies 
when  the  voices  of  men  were  hushed,  or  only  uplifted  in 
prayer — when  the  very  children  held  their  breath  with 
awe,  and  the  good  wife  scarcely  ventured  to  smooth  the 
bed  she  had  slept  in,  or  dress  the  food  for  her  household, 
lest  the  holy  time  given  to  the  Lord  should  be  encroached 
upon. 

The  very  smoke,  as  it  curled  up  from  the  chimneys  of 
Boston,  seemed  to  float  off  more  dreamily  than  on  other 
days.  There  was  no  Bound  of  life  abroad,  for  men  who 
went  forth  left  the  beaten  track  and  walked  softly  along 
the  turf  on  each  side  of  the  highway,  as  if  the  noise  of 
their  own  footsteps  was  a  sacrilege. 

But  on  this  particular  Sabbath  there  was,  at  least 
within  doors,  signs  of  unusual  commotion.  The  mother 
in  each  household  brought  forth  her  best  apparel,  as  if  to 
grace  some  great  occasion  ;  while  the  good  father,  in  his 
Sabbath-day  raiment,  read  an  extra  chapter  in  the  Bible 
before  going  forth,  and  drilled  his  offspring  into  deeper 
6 


96  THE     FORCED     SACRAMENT. 

seriousness.  On  that  day  the  most  mischievous  urchin 
would  have  looked  upon  a  single  smile  as  among  the 
unforgivable  sins  of  which  he  had  heard  so  much,  but 
could  never  understand. 

But  of  all  the  houses  in  the  town,  the  gubernatorial 
mansion  was  the  most  silent ;  and  yet  important  prepara 
tions  were  going  on  in  its  stately  rooms.  The  servants 
spoke  in  whispers  as  they  moved  up  and  down  the  broad 
staircase  ;  and  even  Norman  Lovel,  whose  gay  spirits 
were  not  easily  tamed,  looked  grave  as  he  seated  himself 
by  the  window  to  wait. 

At  last,  an  open  carriage,  drawn  by  four  gray  horses, 
swept  slowly  around  the  gravelled  path,  and  drew  up  on 
one  side  of  the  steps. 

Then  the  front  door  swung  open,  both  heavy  leaves  at 
once,  and  Governor  Phipps  appeared,  followed  by  four 
attendants,  bearing  halberts. 

It  is  hardly  possible  to  imagine  a  more  imposing  pres 
ence  than  this  extraordinary  man  presented.  His  self- 
made  greatness  seemed  like  an  inheritance,  so  completely 
did  his  air  and  sumptuous  habiliments  harmonize  with 
each  other.  The  broad,  firm  forehead,  the  deep-set  eyes, 
proud  and  steady  in  their  glances,  the  firm  mouth,  grave 
without  severity,  the  thick  hair,  so  slightly  powdered  that 
a  few  gray  threads  were  still  to  be  detected  in  the  wavy 
masses,  the  upright  figure,  tall  and  robust,  all  possessed 
the  power  of  command,  had  no  other  signs  of  state  been 
ndded  to  them.  But  no  outward  effect  was  wanting. 

The  slight  gold  embroidery  on  his  undervest  of  snowy 
eatin,  gleamed  in  faint  ripples  through  the  delicate  Flan 
ders  lace  that  edged  his  linen,  and  shed  its  misty  richness 
over  the  white  facings  of  a  purple  velvet  coat,  which 
fell  back  from  his  chest,  and,  with  broad  gold  buttons 


THE     FORCED     SACRAMENT.  97 

gleaming  down  the  front,  descended  within  an  inch  or  two 
of  his  knees.  The  garters,  which  united  his  small  clothes 
and  white  silk  stockings,  were  buckled  up  with  diamonds, 
and  the  crimson  straps  of  his  Spanish  leather  shoes  were 
fastened  in  like  manner.  From  the  plush  hat,  turned  up 
at  the  sides,  which  crowned  that  lofty  head,  to  the  yellow 
lace  that  fell  over  his  doeskin  gloves,  every  thing  bespoke 
the  man  of  strength  and  refinement. 

Sir  William  Phipps  descended  the  steps  of  his  mansion 
with  a  grave,  almost  sad,  countenance,  and,  followed  by 
his  attendants,  walked  away,  bending  his  steps  towards 
North  Boston. 

As  he  turned  into  the  open  street,  a  faint  hum,  like  the 
slow  swarming  of  innumerable  bees,  came  up  from  the 
town  ;  and  directly  the  streets  were  alive  with  neatly 
dressed  people,  all  tending  in  the  same  direction,  with 
their  governor. 

Sir  William  had  hardly  gone  out  of  sight  when  the 
carriage  took  its  station  before  the  entrance  of  his  dwell 
ing,  and  Lady  Phipps,  accompanied  by  Elizabeth  Parris 
and  Norman  Lovel,  descended  the  steps  and  entered  it. 

Lady  Phipps  had  evidently  been  weeping,  for  there 
was  a  flush  around  her  eyes ;  and  Elizabeth  Parris 
seemed  even  more  solemnly  impressed  than  her  friend. 
Young  Norman,  too,  looked  serious ;  and,  as  if  each  had 
been  possessed  with  an  inward  prayer,  they  remained 
silent,  like  persons  about  to  join  a  funeral  train. 

They  were  seated.  Two  attendants,  bearing  halberts, 
mounted  behind ;  and  the  equipage  swept  slowly  away, 
following  the  governor  at  a  given  distance,  till  it  drew  up 
before  the  North  Boston  meeting-house. 

A  crowd  was  before  the  entrance — a  silent,  reverential 
crowd — composed  of  devout  men,  who  spoke  in  whispers 


98  THE     FORCED     SACRAMENT. 

if  they  addressed  ea»,h  other ;  and  scarcely  allowed  the 
excitement  natural  to  the  occasion  to  appear  even  in 
their  eyes.  This  crowd  parted  to  the  right  and  left,  first 
that  the  minister,  with  Samuel  Parris  at  his  side,  might 
pass  through ;  and  again  to  make  a  passage  for  the 
governor  and  his  train. 

Sir  William  passed  on,  without  recognizing  a  friend 
among  many  that  gazed  upon  him  from  the  throng,  for 
such  worldly  courtesies  were  not  for  the  holy  Sabbath 
day  in  those  times. 

Before  the  crowd  closed  in,  Lady  Phipps  drove  slowly 
up.  The  party  descended  at  a  respectful  distance  from 
the  door,  to  which  the  ladies  moved  with  downcast  eyes, 
and  disappeared  in  the  meeting-house. 

Right  and  left,  through  the  broad  aisles  that  crossed 
each  other  in  the  centre  of  the  building,  the  congregation 
poured  in,  till  that  heavy,  wooden  edifice  was  full. 

The  two  ministers  mounted  one  of  the  curving  stair 
cases  leading  to  the  broad  box  pulpit,  which  lifted  them 
to  a  level  with  the  heavy  galleries.  The  deacons  ranged 
themselves  in  a  long  pew,  which  ran  across  the  front,  far 
below.  On  a  narrow  platform  stood  a  table  of  cherry- 
wood,  on  which  was  a  silver  trencher  of  unleaven  bread, 
cut  in  small  fragments ;  a  tankard  and  a  goblet,  over 
which  a  snowy  napkin  had  been  reverently  cast :  and,  a 
little  apart  from  these,  stood  a  large  china  bowl  filled  with 
pure  water. 

These  preparations,  simple  as  they  were,  seemed  to 
strike  that  primitive  congregation  with  unusual  awe. 
Each  member  cast  a  solemn  glance  at  the  table  before 
he  seated  himself,  and  the  funereal  silence  that  reigned 
through  the  house  before  the  service  commenced  became 
almost  painful 


THE     FORCED     SACBA&ENT.  99 

That  was  a  long,  labored  sermon,  full  of  quaint  wisdom 
and  ponderous  theology.  But  the  congregation  listened 
to  its  innumerable  divisions  with  intense  interest,  while 
the  governor  sat  wrapped  in  thought,  much  paler  than, 
usual,  and  with  a  holy  sadness  creeping  over  his  face. 

The  gentle  lady  by  his  side  raised  her  eyes  now  and 
then  to  his,  with  a  look  of  wistful  sympathy. 

The  sermon  was  over ;  the  long  prayer  said ;  then 
Samuel  Parris  arose  from  a  back  seat  in  the  pulpit,  and 
came  down  the  steps ;  his  gray  hair  streaming  over  his 
temples,  his  eyes  full  of  strange  light,  and  his  hand  pressed 
hard  on  the  banisters  to  help  his  descent. 

The  old  man  stood  up  on  the  platform  in  front  of  the 
deacons,  and  turned  his  gaze  upon  the  governor's  seat. 

Sir  William  Phipps  arose,  followed  by  a  faint  sob  from 
that  crimson-lined  pew,  and  with  a  firm,  slow  tread,  ad 
vanced  in  front  of  the  communion-table.  Perhaps  in  his 
whole  life  that  strong  man  had  never  been  more  intensely 
agitated.  Danger  he  had  endured  without  flinching — sor 
row,  deep,  deep  sorrow,  he  had  suffered  in  profound 
silence,  seeking  neither  counsel  nor  sympathy  ;  but  to  the 
very,  depths  of  his  soul  Sir  William  was  a  proud  man,  and 
it  was  with  a  great  struggle  that  he  stepped  down  front 
bis  high  estate,  and  consented  to  become  as  a  little  child 
in  the  presence  of  so  many  people,  mentally  inferior  to 
himself,  and  who  could  never  comprehend  the  sublime 
strength  which  possessed  his  soul. 

He  stood  up  before  the  people,  and  in  a  firm  but  very 
gentle  voice  addressed  them.  He  touched  briefly  on  the 
salient  points  of  a  most  eventful  life  ;  spoke  with  great 
humility  of  his  own  shortcomings,  and  with  solemn  and 
touching  dignity  laid  his  heart  in  genuine  faith  on  the 
altar  of  God. 


1(50  fSB     FORCED     SACRAMENT. 

It  was  an  eloquent  address,  full  of  sincerity  and  earnest 
ness.  In  his  whole  life,  perhaps,  Sir  William  Phipps  had 
never  appeared  so  great  before  his  people,  or  had  so 
completely  taken  possession  of  their  respect. 

As  he  commenced  speaking,  there  glided  through  the 
door,  which  had  been  left  open  for  a  free  circulation  of 
air,  a  strange  lady,  dressed  more  richly  than  was  common 
in  those  days,  except  in  the  very  highest  classes.  She 
stood  for  a  moment  looking  around,  bewildered  to  Gnd 
herself  among  so  many  people  ;  and  then,  as  if  arrested 
and  held  in  thrall  by  the  deep-toned  voice  which  filled  the 
edifice,  she  stood  perfectly  motionless,  pale  and  still  as 
marble. 

The  general  attention  was  so  completely  absorbed  by 
the  speaker,  that  no  one  observed  this  singular  entrance, 
and  the  lady  stood  alone  among  all  that  human  life 
unconscious  of  its  presence  as  if  she  had  been  in  the 
depths  of  a  forest. 

Sir  William  Phipps  ceased  speaking,  and,  turning  to  his 
old  friend,  who  stood  by  the  table  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 
bent  his  stately  bead  for  the  baptismal  rites. 

Then  the  lady  came  slowly  forward,  moving  like  a 
ghost  up  the  broad  aisle,  not  as  it  were  by  her  own 
rolition,  but  impelled  by  some  all-absorbing  power  of 
\7hich  she  was  herself  unconscious.  The  congregation, 
occupied  by  the  ceremony,  saw  nothing  of  this  till  she 
came  up  almost  to  the  pulpit,  and  turning  aside,  stood 
mute  and  still  as  before,  with  her  woeful  eyes  turning  first 
upon  the  governor,  then  on -Samuel  Parris. 

It  did  not  seem  that  either  of  these  men  saw  the  in 
truder,  for  they  looked  each  upon  the  other  with  glances 
of  solemn  affection,  such  as  men  of  kindred  sympathies 
alone  can  understand.  But  as  if  that  singular  presence 


THE     FORCED     SACRAMENT.  101 

would  make  itself  felt  in  spite  of  any  preoccupation,  a 
shadow  fell  upon  the  face  of  the  governor,  and  those  who 
looked  closely  saw  the  thin  hand  of  Samuel  Parris 
tremble  as  he  laved  up  the  crystal  drops  that  were  te 
purify  his  brother's  soul.  His  voice,  too,  faltered  as  he 
spoke  the  few  words  necessary  to  the  baptismal  ceremony, 
and  yet  he  had  not  turned  his  face  or  raised  his  eyes  from 
the  bowed  head  before  him. 

Then,  with  the  holy  water  drops  still  trembling  on  his 
forehead,  Sir  William  lifted  his  face,  and  encountered  the 
gaze  of  that  strange  woman.  What  were  those  intensely 
mournful  eyes  to  him,  that  he  should  feel  their  glance 
trembling  through  his  soul  ?  Why  did  that  wild  sight 
come  into  the  calm  depths  of  his  eyes  ?  With  a  great 
effort  he  turned  away,  and  bethought  himself  of  the  still 
more  sacred  rites  which  were  to  complete  bis  acceptance 
among  the  people  of  God.  But  the  fervor  of  devotion 
had  passed  ;  he  could  no  longer  concentrate  every  thought 
upon  the  God  whom  he  had  promised  to  serve.  The 
sacred  bread  touched  his  lips,  and  the  sacramental  wine 
laved  them,  but,  even  as  he  returned  the  goblet  to  the 
trembling  hold  of  his  friend,  the  fascination  of  those  eyes 
drew  his  soul  away.  He  turned  from  the  communion 
table,  and  went  to  the  pew  where  his  wife  and  her  young 
friends  were  sitting ;  there,  bowing  his  face  between  his 
hands,  he  strove  to  pray,  but  could  only  shrink  and 
shudder  as  if  some  terrible  calamity  were  upon  him. 

There  was  a  brief  benediction,  and  the  congregation, 
held  motionless  till  the  governor  and  his  family  passed 
out,  broke  up  and  departed  through  the  various  doors, 
leaving  the  meeting-house  empty.  No,  not  quite ;  for 
Samuel  Parris  still  lingered  behind,  and  busied  himself 
in  covering  the  consecrated  wine  and  bread ;  for  he 


102  THE     FORCED     SACRAMENT. 

could  not  endure  that  other  hands  should  touch  the 
symbols  our  Lord  has  made  holy.  He  was  reverently 
placing  the  napkin  over  them  when  Barbara  Stafford 
came  from  her  station  in  the  shadow  of  the  pulpit,  and, 
kneeling  at  his  feet,  besought  him  that  she  too  might 
partake  of  the  holy  bread  and  wine. 

Parris  was  an  old  man,  and  his  eyes  were  dim  with 
tears,  for  to  his  gentle  heart  there  had  been  something 
peculiarly  touching  in  the  rites  he  had  just  administered 
to  his  friend.  Besides,  the  lady  was  so  changed  by  her 
toilet,  that  he  had  no  suspicion  that  she  was  the  person 
whose  life  he  had  saved  a  few  days  before.  Thus  he 
stood  for  a  moment  lost  in  astonishment  at  the  strange 
ness  of  the  request. 

"  Sister,"  he  said  very  kindly — for  with  thoughts  of  the 
Saviour's  suffering  so  close  to  his  heart,  how  could  he  do 
otherwise  ? — ""this  is  a  singular  request.  Know  you  not 
that  the  sacrament  of  to-day  was  special  to  one  purpose  ? 
The  congregation  was  not  expected  to  join  in  it." 

"  I  know  that  it  may  seem  out  of  place  to  ask  so  much, 
even  of  a  servant  of  God,  and  in  a  bouse  given  up  to  his 
worship.  But  if  there  is  a  holy  virtue  in  this  bread  and 
wine,  give  it  to  me  that  I  may  be  strong ;  for  I  declare  to 
you,  old  man,  there  is  not  a  soul  on  the  broad  earth  that 
needs  it  as  mine  does  now." 

How  mournfully  those  eyes  implored  him,  how  deep  and 
pathetic  were  the  pleadings  of  that  sweet  voice  ! 

Imperceptibly  the  old  minister  began  to  tremble  as  he 
had  done  a  few  minutes  before,-with  bis  hand  in  the  bap 
tismal  water. 

She  laid  one  hand  on  her  heart :  "  Old  man,  if  you  are 
a  true  servant  of  God,  listen  ;  I  am  afraid  of  myself,  for 
humanity  is  very  frail — here  with  that  voice  still  ringing 


THE     FORCED     SACRAMENT.  103 

through  my  brain,  with — but  no  matter,  I  am  a  woman, 
and  weak — alone,  and  oh  how  desolate  !  While  the  power 
is  strong  upon  me,  I  would  breathe  a  vow  which  no  one 
but  the  Holy  of  holies  shall  hear ;  I  would  seal  that  vow 
with  the  bread  and  wine  he  has  tasted." 

"But  sister!" 

"  Do  not  refuse  me  :  it  is  a  little  thing  for  you,  all  the 
future  to  me.  Give  me  to  taste  of  the  cup  while  I  have 
strength  ;  for  I  say  unto  you,  old  man,  the  spirit  that  im 
pels  me  will  not  suffice  to  struggle  against  a  great  temp 
tation,  without  help  from  heaven." 

The  face  of  that  woman  was  eloquent  with  noble  re 
solves,  the  pathos  of  her  voice  would  have  touched  a  heart 
of  ice. 

The  old  man  slowly  removed  the  napkin,  and  laid  his 
hand  upon  the  wine  cup.  Barbara's  eyes  turned  wistfully 
upon  it. 

"  Remember,"  said  the  minister,  taking  a  morsel  of  the 
bread  between  his  fingers — "  remember,  he  that  eateth 
of  this  bread  or  driuketh  of  this  cup  unworthily — " 

"  I  know,  I  know — I  do  remember,"  she  urged,  inter 
rupting  him  ;  then  bowing  herself  and  placing  the  bread 
between  her  lips,  she  continued  solemnly,  "before  the 
most  Holy,  I  do  not  eat  or  drink  unworthily."  Then,  with 
a  spirit  of  self-abnegation  in  her  soul  which  amounted  al 
most  to  martyrdom,  Barbara  Stafford  put  her  lips  to  the 
goblet  which  another  mouth  had  just  touched,  and  drank 
of  the  sacred  wine. 

After  that  covenant  with  her  God,  a  calm,  sweet  peaco 
composed  her  features,  and  settled  on  her  whole  being. 
For  a  moment  she  seemed  to  have  no  sorrow,  but  rising 
from  her  knees  tock  the  minister's  hand,  pressed  her  lips 
upon  it,  and  went  away. 


HUNTED     DOWN. 

It  was  not  till  she  had  gone,  and  he  found  himself  in 
the  empty  building,  that  Samuel  Parris  fully  realized  what 
he  had  done.  By  the  rules  of  his  church  no  person,  not 
an  admitted  member,  had  the  privilege  of  sacrament 
How  did  he  know  if  this  woman  was  spiritually  qualified  ? 
By  what  right  had  he,  standing  at  the  foot  of  another 
man's  pulpit,  to  break  bread  and  wine,  perhaps  to  an  un 
believer  ?  Who  was  this  woman  who  had  exercised  an 
influence  so  potent  upon  him,  and,  as  it  were,  wrested  the 
holy  bread  and  wine  from  his  hand  ?  Surely  the  evil  one 
could  not  have  tempted  him  in  a  form  like  that. 

These  thoughts  troubled  the  minister  greatly,  and  he 
left  the  meeting-house  saddened  by  the  waywardness  of 
his  own  heart,  which  would  be  constantly  following  its 
kind  impulses,  in  spite  of  the  strict  rules  laid  down  by  his 
creed. 


CHAPTER    X. 

HUNTED    DOWN. 

SAMUEL  PARRIS  had  gone  up  from  Salem  to  Boston  im 
pelled  only  by  an  unconquerable  wish  to  breathe  the  same 
air  with  his  only  child  ;  but  when  Governor  Phipps  found 
that  he  was  in  the  same  place  with  himself,  wandering 
about  the  streets,  and  crucifying  his  heart,  because  of  his 
great  love  for  the  daughter  of  his  old  age,  he  went  in 
ccarch  of  him  ;  and,  after  much  persuasion  and  reasoning, 
induced  a  more  wholesome  frame  of  mind,  and,  for  a  little 


HUNTED     DOWN.  105 

time,  the  minister  was  able  to  receive  the  glad  welcome 
of  his  child  without  self-reproach. 

The  healthy  good  sense  of  his  friend  had  a  wonderful 
effect  on  the  old  man,  who  had  become  morbid  from  con 
stant  loneliness  and  much  sorrow.  The  tone  of  his  fine 
miud  grew  stronger  under  a  roof  where  the  affections  had 
full  scope,  and  where  a  fresh,  breezy  atmosphere  always 
prevailed.  At  times,  the  good  old  man  was  seen  almost 
to  smile,  this  little  sojourn  from  home  gave  such  zest  to 
his  life. 

He  had  provided  for  his  pulpit  in  Salem  before  leaving 
home,  and  therefore,  without  undue  persuasion,  consented 
to  remain  and  take  a  share  in  the  baptism  of  his  friend, 
a  thing  which  the  governor,  and  his  whole  family,  had 
much  at  heart. 

But  all  this  time  his  own  home  was  left  in  loneliness, 
or  what  was  almost  the  same  thing,  under  the  charge  of  a 
young  girl,  the  niece  of  his  wife,  who  had  been  adopted 
in  her  infancy,  and  brought  up  side  by  side  with  his  own 
child. 

This  girl  was  a  little  older  than  Elizabeth  Parris,  and 
had  shared  the  same  love,  the  same  bed,  and  the  same 
table  with  her  from  childhood  up.  She  was  an  orphan 
and  the  child  of  an  orphan. 

It  was  said  in  whispers,  by  the  old  gossips  of  the  place, 
that  her  mother  came  from  some  remote  Indian  settle 
ment,  where  she  and  her  little  sister — afterwards  the  wife 
of  Samuel  Parris — had  been  left  like  wild  animals,  to  live 
or  die,  probably  by  some  unfortunate  or  unnatural  parent. 
But  these  t\vo  helpless  creatures  had  escaped  the  wilder 
ness  and  sought  shelter  among  the  inhabitants  of  Salem. 
The  elder  girl  gave  no  account  of  herself  save  that  she 
had  escaped  great  danger,  and  fled  from  the  woods  whore 


106  HUNTED     DOWN. 

her  mother  had  perished.  The  little  one  only  clung  to  her 
sister  with  fond  love  in  her  deep  blue  eyes,  and  a  timid 
struggle  if  any  one  attempted  to  draw  her  from  that  sin 
gular  protection.  She  was  quite  too  young  for  any  knowl 
edge  of  her  own  history. 

For  a  time  this  brave  girl  and  her  sister  were  received 
and  kindly  treated  by  the  inhabitants,  but  after  a  year  or 
two  it  came  out  that,  even  in  the  wilderness,  she  had  im 
bibed,  no  one  could  tell  how,  those  Quaker  heresies  so 
obnoxious  to  the  prevailing  religionists.  Becoming  more 
and  more  bold  in  declaring  them,  she  had  been  driven 
forth  into  the  wilderness  again,  cruelly  scourged  by  the 
law,  and  hunted  down  by  her  fellow-men  like  a  she-wolf 
caught  at  her  prey. 

The  younger  child,  to  whom  all  religious  creeds  re 
mained  a  blessed  mystery,  was  forcibly  torn  from  the  arms 
of  her  sister,  whose  very  touch  was  considered  contagious 
by  the  regenerated,  and  adopted  into  the  church.  She 
was  too  young  at  the  time  of  her  sister's  martyrdom,  for 
such  in  spirit  it  was,  to  resist  either  this  cruelty  or  kind 
ness,  and  the  very  people  who  had  hunted  her  sister  out 
of  civilized  life  were  the  most  eager  for  her  welfare,  and 
strove  most  diligently  to  render  her  happy  and  comfort 
able.  Indeed,  she  was  in  reality  the  ewe  lamb  of  the 
church,  and,  being  of  a  peaceful,  gentle  nature,  soon 
learned  to  look  upon  the  troubles  of  her  first  childhood  as 
a  dream,  and  think  of  the  brave  sister,  who  had  been 
ready  to  perish  for  her,  as  one  of  the  characters  that  she 
loved  to  read  about  in  the  Bibler- 

Thus  she  surrounded  the  past  with  a  sort  of  religious 
mystery,  which  threw  a  shade  of  sadness  over  her  whole 
life,  but  never,  till  the  very  last,  embittered  it  as  a  knowl 
edge  of  the  whole  truth  would  have  done. 


HUNTED     DOWN.  107 

This  young  girl  became  to  the  church  a  lamb  of  atone 
ment  for  her  sister's  heresy.  She  grew  up  beautiful  as  an 
angel,  both  in  soul  and  body ;  became  the  wife  of  Samuel 
Parris,  the  mother  of  his  child,  and  then,  in  truth,  an  angel. 

But  a  thing  happened  on  the  very  day  before  her  death, 
which  no  human  being  ever  understood  save  the  young 
wife,  whose  death-blow  came  with  the  knowledge  it  brought. 

She  was  sitting  alone,  this  young  wife,  in  the  spare 
room  of  her  log  house,  singing  a  quiet,  sweet  psalm-tune 
to  herself,  as  she  sewed  on  a  little  garment  which  was  to 
clothe  her  first-born  child.  The  minister  had  gone  forth 
to  hold  a  prayer-meeting,  and  she  was  thus  pleasantly 
whiling  the  time  of  his  absence  away,  thinking  of  him 
with  a  gentle  satisfaction  that  more  passionate  love  might 
not  have  known,  between  the  pauses  of  her  work  and  the 
breaks  in  her  sweet  music. 

It  was  in  the  spring  ;  the  little  window  of  her  room  was 
curtained  with  wild  honeysuckles  and  sweetbriar  brought 
down  from  the  woods,  and  rooted  by  the  house.  The 
sash  was  up,  and  the  wind,  as  it  sighed  through  the 
leaves,  gave  a  melodious  accompaniment  to  her  voice. 
But  all  at  once,  there  was  a  quick  rustling  of  the  branches, 
as  if  they  were  torn  apart  by  force,  and,  looking  up  sud 
denly,  the  young  wife  saw  a  thin  brown  hand  clutching 
the  thorny  foliage,  and  a  ghastly  face,  fired  by  two  burn 
ing  eyes,  looking  in  upon  her. 

Mrs.  Parris  started  up  in  great  terror,  for  in  her  whole 
nature  she  was  timid,  and  would  have  fled  to  the  kitchen  ; 
but  while  she  stood  trembling  and  doubtful,  the  face  dis 
appeared,  the  outer  door  flew  open,  and  a  woman  leading 
a  child  by  the  hand  came  hastily  into  the  room. 

Mrs.  Parris  gazed  at  the  intruder  with  renewed  affright. 
Though  clad  as  a  savage,  with  moccasins  on  her  feet, 


108  HUNTED     DOWN. 

leggins  of  crimson  cloth,  and  a  dress  of  deer  skin,  gorgeous 
with  embroidery  in  beads,  porcupine  quills,  and  stained 
grasses,  she  had  nothing  of  the  Indian  in  her  countenance 
or  complexion.  The  hair  that  fell  down  from  a  broken 
coronet  of  feathers,  which  had  once  been  gorgeous,  was  of 
a  rich  golden  tint,  and  curled  in  heavy  masses,  though  the 
woman  had  reached  mid-age  in  fact,  and  was  much  older 
in  appearance. 

The  eyes  which  she  fixed  on  the  young  wife,  though 
wild  with  the  fires  of  death,  had  once  been  blue  as  a  sum 
mer  sky. 

She  could  not  speak — this  strange  wild  woman — but 
gazed  at  the  innocent  wife  standing  there  in  her  sweet 
motherly  hopes,  till  great  tears  fell  down  her  cheeks,  and 
sobs  rose  and  swelled  in  her  throat,  almost  choking  her. 

"  Who  are  you — what  can  I  do  for  you  ?"  said  Mrs. 
Parris,  gathering  up  all  her  courage  to  speak.  "  The 
minister  is  away  ;  I  am  all  aloue  ;  if  more  of  your  tribe  are 
here,  and  wish  me  harm,  I  am  helpless  enough." 

The  woman  put  her  hand  up,  and  strove  to  force  back 
the  sobs  that  held  her  speechless,  then  she  drew  close  to 
the  young  wife,  and  her  voice  broke  forth  in  a  gush  of 
tender  anguish,  that  thrilled  her  listener  through  and 
through. 

"  llachael !" 

That  had  been  the  orphan's  name,  forgotten  long  ago, 
for  when  they  baptized  her  in  the  church  she  was  called 
Elizabeth.  But  the  anguish,  the  pathos  with  which  it  was 
uttered,  made  her  pulses  swell  and  her  heart  beat. 

"llachael!"  The  sound  grew  familiar,  the  voice  came 
to  her  from  the  depths  of  the  past,  as  a  ghost  glides  out 
from  the  darkness  *,ha*;  surrounds  it.  The  knowledge  that 
she  had  once  known  a  sister  came  back. 


HUNT  ED     DOWN.  109 

"Rachael,  my  sister  Rachael !" 

Her  soul  gave  up  its  past  at  the  cry.  She  stretched 
forth  her  arras  as  she  had  done  a  thousand  times  in  her 
helpless  infancy,  and  fell  into  the  embrace  that  gathered 
her  up  to  the  very  heart  of  that  dying  woman. 

"  Rachael !" 

"  Sister !" 

Language  was  mute  then,  and  silence  became  eloquent ; 
the  blood  in  those  two  hearts  throbbed  with  kindred  fire, 
those  arms  clung  together  like  vines  rooted  in  the  same 
soil. 

At  last  the  woman  began  to  stagger. 

"  Let  me  sit  down,  Rachael."  She  fell  into  the  easy- 
chair,  gasping  for  breath. 

"  Lay  thy  head  here  close — close,  sister — sister  !" 

"  You  are  ill — dying  !" 

"  Not  yet — there — there — it  is  well ;  thee  will  try  and 
remember  how  dear  the  little  Rachael  was  to  her  sister, 
thee  will  know  how  true  this  heart  is  by  its  beating — its 
last  beat,  for  I  am  about  to  die." 

"  Yes,  I  remember,  as  in  a  dream  ;  but  still  I  know  who 
you  arc,  spite  of  this  dress,  spite  of  time." 

"And  now,  sister,  dear  sister,  I  have  come  to  ask,  for 
my  little  one,  the  care  which  thee  received  at  my  hands ; 
for  as  our  mother  took  thee  from  her  bosom  when  she 
came  to  her  death  in  the  wilderness,  I  charge  thee,  sister 
Rachael,  with  my  only  daughter,  Abigail  Williams,  for  thus 
thee  must  call  my  child.  She  has  another  name,  but  that 
would  bring  fierce  enemies  upon  her." 

"  God  so  deal  with  me  as  I  deal  with  this  little  one  !" 
was  the  reply,  and  reaching  forth  her  arm,  Mrs.  Parris 
drew  the  child  from  the  feet  of  her  mother,  kissing  her 
softly  amid  her  tears. 


110  HDNTED     DOWN. 

"  Raohael  1" 

"  Sister !" 

"  When  thee  was  a  little  child  like  her,  I  suffered  them 
to  drive  me  away  like  a  sinner  and  a  slave  ;  I  suffered 
them  to  tear  thee  from  my  bosom,  and  went  into  the 
wilderness  alone,  never  attempting  to  come  back  lest  thee 
too  might  suffer,  and  perchance  perish  of  want.  It  was 
like  tearing  my  life  away  when  thee  was  given  up."  • 

"  Alas,  alas  !  that  I  should  have  known  so  little  of  this  !" 

"  It  was  a  merciful  forgetfulness  ;  thy  pure  life  has  been 
all  the  happier  for  it,  but  I  was  not  unmindful ;  many  a 
week's  journey  have  I  taken  through  the  woods  to  hear  of 
thy  welfare." 

"But  yourself?" 

"  I  have  been  even  as  God  wills  it.  Look  up,  Rachael : 
do  not  weep  or  droop  thine  eyes  to  the  earth  :  thee  has  no 
cause.  Even  as  tbee,  I  have  been  the  wife  of  one 
husband." 

"  I  did  not  think  otherwise  ;  it  is  for  myself  that  I  am 
troubled.  Surely  this  heart  should  have  told  me  that  you 
lived." 

"  Once  more,  my  sister,  it  was  a  merciful  forgetfuluess ; 
not  till  I  knew  by  sure  signs  that  my  last  moment  was  at 
hand,  would  I  claim  even  this  hour  of  thy  life.  Now  1 
have  come  a  long  way  alone  and  on  foot,  to  give  up  my 
child,  that  she  may  dwell  with  the  people  of  her  mother." 

"  But,  her  father  ?" 

"  He  was  a  brave  man — my  benefactor  and  lord.  His 
son,  the  first-born,  was  torn  fiiom  me  as  I  fled  from  the 
white  fiends  that  murdered  his  father.  They  will  make 
him  a  slave — he  a  king's  son  !  The  chief  of  his  tribe  a 
slave  I  a  slave  !" 

The  woman  reeled  on  her  feet  as  she  stood,  and  fell  into 


HUNTED     DOWN.  Ill 

the  chair  again,  panting  for  breath.     With  an  effort  she 
spoke  on. 

"  Thee  shall  be  mother  to  this  little  one,  sister  Rachael." 

"Even  as  my  husband  shall  be  its  father,"  said  Mrs. 
Parris,  laying  her  hand  upon  the  child's  head. 

"  That  husband — presently — when  I  have  more  breath, 
thee  shall  tell  me  about  him,  for  I  know  nothing.  It  is 
long,  very  long,  since  I  have  been  able  to  gain  tidings  from 
the  settlements.  Even  now  I  came  upon  this  house  at 
the  last  moment,  and  feeling  about  to  fall  to  the  earth, 
looked  in,  seeking  for  help,  and  saw  thee." 

"  Thank  God  that  it  was  my  house.  Alas,  how  hag- 
gard  and  worn  you  look,  my  sister  !  I  read  years  of  suffer- 
iug  in  your  face,  and  I  so  happy,  so  unconscious  all  the 
time.  But  no  one  ever  talked  of  my  childhood." 

"  They  would  not  thus  accuse  themselves ;  they  who 
lashed  thy  sister  with  stripes,  and  drove  her  into  the 
woods  like  a  dog.  How  could  such  men  look  into  thy 
pure  face,  and  tell  this  unholy  truth  ?" 
•  "  But  my  husband  ;  surely  he  must  have  heard  of  this 
cruelty,  for  he  was  minister  here  before  I  was  born.  Yet 
when  I  question  him  of  my  childhood,  he  always  puts  the 
subject  aside." 

A  wild  light  came  into  the  woman's  eye.  She  sat 
upright  in  the  chair,  and  looked  down  into  the  face  of  her 
sister. 

"A  minister,  Rachael !  what  is  thy  husband's  name  ?" 

The  name  faltered  on  the  young  wife's  lips,  not  ns 
usual  from  reverence,  but  fear. 

"Parris — his  name  is  Parris." 

The  woman  gathered  herself  slowly  up. 

11  Samuel  Parris  ?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  wife,  in  a  timid  whisper. 
7 


112  HUNTED     DOWN. 

"An  old  man  now  ?" 

"Yes." 

The  woman  stood  upright,  struggling  to  walk,  but 
without  the  power  to  move.  Her  chest  heaved,  her 
throat  swelled,  she  groped  about  blindly  with  her  hand, 
searching  for  her  child. 

"  Sister,  sister,  what  troubles  you  ?"  cried  Mrs.  Parris, 
trembling  violently. 

"Rachael,  that  man  wan  one  of  my  judges!" 

The  words  came  out  hoarsely,  rattling  in  her  throat 
She  fell  back,  struggled  with  awful  force  for  a  moment, 
and  then  a  cold,  gray  corpse  settled  down  in  the  chair, 
terribly  in  contrast  with  the  savage  dress.  The  child, 
who  had  been  growing  paler  and  paler,  went  softly  up  to 
the  chair,  and  burying  its  face  in  the  gorgeous  vestments 
that  clung  about  the  corpse,  remained  motionless  and 
mute  as  the  dead.  She  neither  wept  nor  moaned  like  an 
ordinary  child,  but  a  dull  pallor  stole  over  her  neck  and 
her  little  bands,  which  proved  how  terrible  that  still  grief 
was.  Ah,  who  shall  tell  how  much  of  the  iron  that 
rusted  through  her  after-life,  entered  that  human  soul 
during  those  moments  of  silent  agony  ! 

Mrs.  Parris  stood  looking  at  them  both,  then,  struck 
with  a  pang  of  terrible  anguish,  she  crept  out  of  the  room, 
moaning  as  she  went. 


DOOMED     TO     SLAVEBY.  113 


CHAPTER  XI. 

DOOMED     TO     SLAVERY. 

WHILE  Mrs.  Parris  was  in  her  chamber,  faint  with  pain 
and  driven  wild  by  the  fearful  developments  just  made  to 
her.  the  dead  woman  lay  in  the  great  easy-chair,  wrapped 
in  her  gorgeous  forest-dress  and  with  the  bright  hair  fall 
ing  in  masses  down  her  cheek,  concealing  the  death 
shadows  that  lay  upon  it. 

All  was  still  as  midnight  in  the  house.  Save  for  a  faint 
sob  that  came  once  or  twice  from  the  chamber  above,  the 
pretty  cabin  might  have  been  taken  for  a  tomb.  Old 
Tituba  bad  been  very  busy  at  the  great  stone  oven,  back 
of  the  house,  baking  bread,  and  that  fearful  scene  had 
passed  in  the  parlor  without  her  knowledge.  Though  a 
soul  had  gone  into  eternity,  and  a  heart  had  been  broken, 
in  those  few  minutes,  the  poor  old  savage  was  ignorant  of 
it  all.  With  her  long  iron  shovel  she  was  launching  great 
loaves  of  rye  bread  into  the  depths  of  an  enormous  oven, 
and  at  last  blocked  up  its  yawning  mouth  with  an  earthen 
milk-pan  full  of  beans,  crested  with  a  crisp  mass  of  pork 
cut  in  square  blocks  across  the  rind.  She  had  put  the 
great  wooden  door  up,  and  was  stuffing  tufts  of  grass  about 
the  edges  to  keep  the  air  out,  when  a  lad  rushed  wildly  by 
her,  leaping  over  the  ground  like  a  deer,  and,  turning  a 
corner  of  the  house,  disappeared.  The  lad  was  dressed  in 
a  deer-skin  tunic,  trimmed  so  richly  with  wampum  that  it 
rattled  like  a  hail  storm  as  he  fled.  She  caught  one 
glimpse  of  a  mass  of  glossy  hair  floating  on  the  wind, 


114  DOOMED     TO     SLAVERY. 

and  scarlet  leggins  hanging  in  shreds  around  those  flying 
feet. 

"  It  is  an  Indian  child.  It  is  one  of  our  people,"  cried 
Tituba,  casting  her  heavy  iron  fire-shovel  to  the  ground. 
41  The  white  men  are  on  his  track  ;  they  swarm  like  snakes 
in  the  forest." 

But,  quickly  as  the  old  woman  moved,  that  wild  Indian 
boy  entered  the  house  before  she  came  up.  He  halted 
one  moment  on  the  threshold,  hesitating  and  wild.  A 
glance  at  the  great  easy-chair,  a  cry  that  rang  through  and 
through  the  house,  a  leap  that  seemed  rather  that  of  some 
wild  animal  than  a  human  being,  and  the  boy  lay  pros 
trate  at  the  dead  woman's  feet,  with  both  hands  pulling 
nt  her  dress,  while  he  cried  out,  in  a  voice  that  made  the 
very  air  tremble  with  its  pathos, 

"  Mother !  mother !  I  am  here  !  I  am  here  !  They 
could  not  hold  me  !  I  tore  their  bonds  asunder  like  tow. 
I  shot  one  through  the  heart,  outran  the  others.  All 
night  long  have  I  been  on  your  trail.  Look  at  me,  mother. 
Wake  up  or  the  enemy  will  be  upon  us  again." 

A  stir  in  the  woman's  garments  that  shook  all  its  wam 
pum  fringes,  deceived  the  boy,  or  he  would  have  known 
that  she  was  dead. 

"  Mother  !  mother !  there  is  no  time  for  rest.  They 
were  crowding  in  the  outskirts  of  the  woods  when  I  came 
through.  Come  with  me.  I  know  of  a  cave  in  the  rocks 
where  you  can  be  safe  with  my  little  sister.  Did  you 
know  they  will  sell  us  for  slaves — these  white  men  that 
talk  of  a  God  higher  than  Mifieto  ?  Mother  !  mother  !  I 
hear  a  step.  They  are  on  us  !  They — "  he  paused  sud 
denly,  his  hands,  clasped  and  uplifted,  seemed  freezing  to 
gether.  He  did  not  breathe.  His  wild  eyes  had  caught 
the  deadly  pallor  of  that  face,  scattered  as  it  were  with 


DOOMED     TO     SLAVERY.  115 

ashes  beneath  the  shadowy  hair.  He  shuddered  fearfully 
as  tlic  dead  woman's  garments  rustled  around  her.  A 
little  form,  naif  concealed  by  the  chair,  half  buried  in  the 
garments,  crept  to  his  feet.  A  tiny  hand,  cold  as  snow, 
grasped  at  bis  dress. 

"  Brother  !" 

The  little  girl  spoke  in  the  Indian  tongue,  and  looked 
into  his  face  with  those  dark,  piteous  eyes. 

"  Brother  !" 

The  boy  snatched  her  up,  and  folding  her  close  in  his 
arms,  looked  in  terrible  woe  on  the  dead  face  resting 
against  the  high  back  of  the  chair. 

"  Oh,  mother  !  mother !  have  they  killed  you  as  well  as 
my  father  ?"  he  cried,  drooping  toward  her.  "  Will  you 
never  speak  again  ?  Oh,  Mineto  !  Mineto  !  what  has 
your  people  done,  that  they  are  chased  to  death  like 
wolves  and  foxes  ?  What  had  she  done  that  they  could 
not  spare  her  ?" 

Tituba  stood  motionless  in  the  doorway.  The  wail  of 
grief  in  that  young  voice  held  her  there  dumb  and  sorrow 
ful.  She  understood  the  Indian  tongue,  and  knew  that 
this  boy  was  the  dead  woman's  son.  A  death-chant  rose 
to  her  lips  ;  she  began  to  rock  to  and  fro  on  the  threshold. 
But  a  sound  on  the  edge  of  the  wood  frightened  the  im 
pulse  away.  She  turned  and  saw  a  body  of  armed  men 
coming  around  the  meeting-house.  The  danger  was 
close  upon  them.  Tituba  darted  into  the  room,  snatched 
the  little  girl  from  her  brother's  arms,  and  cried  out  in 
the  Indian  tongue:  "Go!  go!  leap  through  the  back 
window.  There  is  a  hollow  floor  under  the  oven  :  creep 
in.  They  will  not  look  for  you  there."  She  ran  into  the 
kitchen  as  she  spoke,  mounted  a  ladder,  and  hid  the  child 
in  a  corner  of  the  garret,  heaping  strings  of  dried  apples 


116  DOOMED     TO     SLAVERY. 

and  bunches  of  herbs  upon  her.  The  little  girl  lay  in  her 
concealment,  passive  and  mute,  holding  her  breath.  Poor 
thing,  she  bad  become  used  to  scenes  of  peril  like  that. 

But  the  lad,  that  brave  Indian  boy,  scorned  to  flee  for 
his  own  safety  alone.  There  he  stood,  close  to  bis  dead 
mother,  pale  as  death,  but  with  a  terrible  fire  in  his  eyes. 
He  had  not  distinctly  understood  old  Tituba,  and  only 
knew  that  danger  was  near. 

The  heavy  tramp  of  feet  on  the  gravel  path  drew  his 
eyes  from  that  cold  form  to  the  window.  It  was  blocked 
up  with  iron  faces  crowned  with  tall  sugar-loaf  hats,  which 
shut  out  the  very  sight  of  heaven. 

The  savage  instincts  of  a  warlike  race  impelled  the  boy 
to  resistance.  Tituba  had  spoken  of  a  back  window. 
He  glanced  that  way,  knowing  well  that  the  forest 
stretched  darkly  beyond.  But  there  a  terrible  sight  met 
him.  A  dozen  or  more  young  warriors,  the  bravest  of 
those  who  had  followed  King  Philip  on  his  last  war-path, 
lay  upon  the  sod,  bound  hand  and  foot  with  strong  withes, 
shorn  of  their  forest  splendor,  and  with  the  eagle  feathers, 
which  had  been  to  them  a  crown  of  glory,  broken  in  the 
tangled  hair  from  which  they  could  not  be  altogether 
wrested.  There  they  lay,  those  brave,  grand  savages,  like 
a  flock  of  sheep  bound  and  ready  for  the  butcher.  They 
had  fought  valiantly  for  the  land  that  was  undoubtedly 
their  own,  and  for  that  crime  were  deemed  unworthy  of 
Christian  mercy. 

The  brave  boy  saw  that  all  avenues  of  escape  were 
closed  to  him.  Instinctively,  he  felt  for  his  bow.  It  was 
gone.  When  first  taken  a  prisoner,  those  iron-faced  men 
now  glaring  at  him  through  the  window  had  broken 
it  under  their  feet.  But  bristling  up  from  behind  his 
mother's  shoulder  was  a  bow  and  quiver,  in  which  were 


DOOMED     TO     SLAVERY.  117 

a  half  dozen  arrows,  the  last  love-gift  of  King  Philip. 
Quick  as  lightning  he  snatched  the  bow,  and  an  arrow 
flashed  through  the  window. 

A  howl  of  pain  followed,  and  a  rush  at  the  door,  but 
the  lad  wheeled  half  round,  and  arrow  after  arrow  leaped 
from  his  bow,  till  the  quiver  on  that  marble  woman's  back 
was  empty.  Then  a  band  of  soldiers  pressed  in  upon  him 
with  levelled  halberts.  Hands  that  seemed  cased  in  iron 
gauntlets  seized  him  by  the  shoulders,  and  he  was  dragged 
farther  over  the  threshold  stone,  struggling  against  them 
to  the  last.  There  he  was  hurled  to  the  earth  and  bound 
limb  to  limb  with  tough  withes.  Then  two  of  the  soldiers 
carried  him  around  a  corner  of  the  house  and  cast  him 
down  as  if  he  had  been  a  dog,  among  the  young  warriors, 
destined  to  be  sold  into  slavery. 

The  lad  struggled  to  a  sitting  posture,  and  looked  out 
on  the  ocean.  A  ship,  old  and  weather  beaten,  lay  within 
the  harbor,  with  her  anchor  up,  ready  for  sea.  That  ship 
was  bound  for  Bermuda  with  a  cargo  of  slaves,  all 
gathered  from  the  glorious  forests  of  New  England. 

The  men  destined  to  fill  her  hold  were  chiefs  and 
warriors  of  as  brave  a  nation  as  ever  baptized  a  free  soil 
with  blood — men  taken  in  valiant  fight,  while  contesting 
for  their  native  woode,  and  the  wigwams  which  were 
to  them  sacred  homes.  These  unfortunate  men  were 
prisoners  of  war,  helpless,  and  at  the  mercy  of  a  victorious 
foe.  The  Puritan  fathers  being  Christians  and  God-fearing 
men,  would  not  put  their  captives  to  death  :  that  would 
have  been  to  sink  themselves  to  a  level  with  savages ;  so, 
after  grave  deliberation,  some  fasting,  and  much  prayer, 
they  resolved  to  stow  away  these  brave  men  into  the  hold 
of  a  sea-going  vessel,  and  let  the  winds  of  a  benign  heaven 
waft  them  into  perpetual  slavery.  The  returning  ship 


118  DOOMED     TO     SLAVERY. 

would  bring  back  heaps  of  glittering  gold  in  exchange  for 
this  cargo  of  war  prisoners  ;  for  the  men  who  fought  under 
King  Philip  were  powerful  and  capable  of  severe  toil. 
They  had  not  yielded  readily  to  the  rifle,  but  peradven- 
ture  the  lash  might  prove  a  more  effective  instrument  of 
civilization. 

On  this  ship  the  son  cf  King  Philip  looked  with  burning 
1  eyes,  while  the  bonds  with  which  they  had  lashed  his 
limbs  together  cut  purple  hollows  into  his  flesh.  He 
knew  that  the  sails  which  were  now  unfurling  would  bear 
him  far  away  from  the  forest  where  his  father  bad 
perished,  and  where  hundreds  of  his  tribe  were  now  shel 
tering  themselves  from  the  white  man's  wrath. 

There  the  lad  sat,  or  rather  knelt ;  every  nerve  in  his 
body  strained — every  drop  of  his  savage  blood  burning — 
every  thought  a  denunciation.  But  no  one  of  those  iron- 
faced  men  heeded  him. 

The  two  soldiers  who  had  cast  the  boy  down  amid  his 
father's  warriors,  turned  toward  the  sea. 

"  Lo,"  said  one,  extending  his  hand,  "the  wind  is 
fresh  from  the  east.  Yonder,  half-way  to  the  shore, 
comes  a  boat.  Take  these  sinful  creatures  to  the  beach, 
brethren,  while  I  go  in  and  bring  forth  the  woman  and 
her  pappoose." 

The  boy  uttered  a  sharp  cry,  and  turned  his  glance  on 
the  man,  who  strode  toward  the  house.  lie  went  rudely 
up  to  the  great  chair,  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  woman's 
shoulder,  giving  it  a  slight  shake.  The  fringes  on  her 
dress  rattled  like  hail  upon  crusted  snow.  The  man  took 
his  hand  suddenly  away,  hesitated  an  instant,  and  then 
swept  back  the  hair  from  that  still  face.  The  certain  pres 
ence  of  death  touched  even  his  granite  heart.  He  bent 
down,  and  was  folding  the  deer-skin  robe  more  composedly 


DOOMED     TO     SLAVERY.  119 

about  the  form,  when  a  little  creature  came  gliding  through 
the  door,  and  stole  close  up  to  the  chair  before  he  saw 
that  it  was  the  child  he  sought.  She  was  a  fearless  little 
thing  at  all  times ;  now,  some  vague  idea  that  the  man 
was  about  to  harm  her  mother  made  her  eyes  wildly  lu 
minous,  as  she  lifted  them  to  his  face. 

"  Go  away,"  she  said,  in  broken  English,  pushing  him 
with  all  her  tiny  strength.  "  Go  !"  The  fire  in  those 
beautiful  eyes  enkindled  the  stern  cruelty  of  the  man.  He 
snatched  her  up  in  his  arms  and  bore  her  forth  with  a  grim 
smile  on  his  bearded  lip. 

Then  old  Tituba  saw  what  had  happened  and  followed 
him,  uttering  wild  cries  of  distress.  The  man  took  no 
heed,  but  carried  his  captive  around  the  house  in  sight  of 
her  brother. 

A  yell  of  mingled  rage  and  despair  broke  from  that 
young  heart.  The  lad  tore  and  strained  at  his  bonds  like 
a  trapped  panther — fiery  tears  leaped  to  his  eyes,  specks 
of  foam  flew  from  his  mouth. 

"  Not  her,  not  her  !"  he  shrieked,  in  English.  "  She  is 
only  a  little  baby.  Let  them  whip  me,  sell  me,  kill  me. 
I  will  work  and  suffer  for  both." 

The  anguish  in  that  young  voice  reached  Mrs.  Parris, 
where  she  lay  with  her  face  buried  in  the  pillows  of  her 
bed.  Like  a  beautiful  white  nun  she  came  out  of  her 
chamber,  down  the  stairs,  and  into  the  midst  of  those  Puri 
tan  soldiers.  Terrible  suffering  had  cast  its  ashes  over  her  ; 
but  there  was  resolution  in  her  eyes,  pain  on  her  forehead. 

She  went  up  to  the  man,  who  still  held  the  little  savage 
and  took  her  gently  from  his  arms. 

"  She  is  mine.  The  minister  will  care  for  her.  Little 
children  are  not  our  enemies.  Christians  do  not  make 
slaves  of  them." 


DOOMED     TO     SLAVERY. 

There  was  something  in  the  very  gentleness  of  tier 
words  that  almost  conquered  the  man,  who  muttered  a 
gloomy  protest.  The  little  creature  clung  to  her  with 
thrilling  tenacity. 

"  Leave  the  child  with  me.  I  will  answer  for  its  safety 
to  your  leader.  I,  the  wife  of  Samuel  Parris,  whom  you 
all  know." 

There  was  something  in  the  face  of  this  gentle  young 
matron  that  enforced  respect  even  from  the  men  who  had 
so  rudely  invaded  her  dwelling — a  depth  and  intensity 
of  suffering  that  prevailed  more  surely  than  command. 

"  Nay,  if  you  will  take  charge  of  the  little  heathen  we 
have  nothing  to  say.  In  the  minister's  house  she  may 
find  a  gate  of  salvation  open." 

A  spasm  of  pain  swept  the  fair  face  of  the  matron  ;  but 
her  soul  was  strong  enough  for  the  moment  to  put  this 
physical  anguish  aside.  She  took  the  infant  in  her  arms, 
folded  it  close  to  her  aching  bosom,  and  went  with  it  into 
the  house.  Old  Tituba  stood  in  the  door. 

"Take  her,  take  her!  and  God  have  mercy  on  us  all  1" 
cried  Elizabeth,  tottering  forward  and  giving  up  the  child. 
Then  she  went  feebly  up  the  stairs  and  entered  her  cham 
ber  again. 

The  princely  Indian  boy,  true  to  the  reticent  instincts 
of  his  father's  race,  became  silent  as  marble  when  he  saw 
that  his  little  sister  would  not  be  harmed.  Even  the  cry 
of  joy  that  rose  to  his  lips  when  the  child  was  given  up 
he  bravely  suppressed.  He  would  not,  by  one  action,  let 
his  persecutors  know  how  dear  the  little  wanderer  was  to 
him.  Had  he  spoken  a  word,  or  challenged  attention  by  a 
gesture,  the  minister's  wife  would  have  learned  that  her 
sister's  son  was  in  peril,  and  might  perhaps  have  saved 
him  also.  But  he  was  too  brave  for  complaint,  and  she 


DOOMED     TO     SLAVERY.  121 

went  on,  ignorant  of  his  danger  to  the  hour  of  her 
death. 

The  tide  rose,  the  winds  blew  favorably,  that  old  ship 
unfurled  its  canvas  and  sent  out  signals  that  its  human 
crew  was  waited  for.  Down  to  the  beach  those  brave 
young  savages  were  forced,  into  the  boats  and  away  for 
ever  more. 

Before  nightfall  that  craft  was  far  off  on  her  horrible 
errand,  plunging  along  that  vast  desert  of  waters,  with  oh  ! 
what  terrible  agony  shut  down  under  her  closed  hatches. 

There  in  her  hold,  dark  as  the  bottomless  pit,  with  every 
breath  of  the  stifled  air  foul  with  the  scent  of  bilge  water, 
lay  those  children  of  the  great  forest ;  which,  broad,  and 
green,  and  noble  as  it  was,  had  hardly  afforded  scope  for 
their  heroic  energies  a  month  before.  Down  in  impene 
trable  blackness,  beneath  the  roaring  waters  that  beat 
against  that  creaking  hull,  like  wild  animals,  riotous 
with  hunger,  they  had  been  cast  in  heaps,  with  less  mercy 
than  would  have  been  yielded  to  mad  dogs  or  trapped 
tigers.  Not  one  glimpse  of  the  glorious  old  woods  from 
which  they  had  been  torn — not  even  a  fragment  of  the  blue 
sky  was  given  to  those  bloodshot  eyes  ;  but,  lashed  onward 
by  the  waves,  stifled,  hungry,  and  broken-hearted,  they 
were  swept  into  slavery. 

When  Samuel  Parris  reached  home  that  night,  he  found 
in  place  of  the  gentle  wife  whom  he  had  left  singing  at 
her  work,  the  dead  woman  of  the  forest,  lying  in  her 
gorgeous  habiliments,  and  the  little  child,  whose  stillness 
vas  more  appalling  than  that  of  the  corpse,  crouching  at 
her  fee- 

Shocked  at  the  sight,  but  thinking  first  of  his  wife,  the 
minister,  after  a  vain  attempt  to  question  the  child,  fol 
lowed  the  sound  of  broken  voices  that  came  faintly  to  his 


122  DOOMED     TO     SLAVERY. 

ear,  and  entered  his  own  chamber.  A  moment  after  he 
went  hurriedly  from  the  house,  returned  with  another 
person,  and  stood  all  night  long  holding  his  breath  by  tho 
chamber  door.  At  last  he  came  away,  moving  like  a 
ghost  through  the  dim  morning,  and  entered  the  little 
sitting-room  where  bis  angel  had  been  seated  so  tranquilly 
when  he  went  out,  not  yet  twenty-four  hours  agone.  The 
little  girl,  who  had  stayed  by  her  mother  all  night,  arose, 
and  stood  looking  him  in  the  eyes  with  a  steady  gaze  that 
might  have  made  any  man  shrink,  for  it  was  unearthly  in 
its  earnestness. 

While  that  weird  glance  was  upon  him,  a  low  cry  rang 
through  the  house,  a  cry  that  made  every  drop  in  the  old 
man's  veins  leap,  and  every  nerve  tremble. 

"  Thank  God  !  Oh,  my  God,  my  God,  how  can  I  thank 
thee  enough  !"  and  the  old  man  wept  tenderly. 

As  if  mocking  the  ecstasy  of  his  tears,  the  little  girl 
smiled  in  his  face — but  oh,  such  a  wintry  smile — and  went 
back  to  her  mother.  The  old  man  shuddered. 

After  a  time,  he  went  up  to  the  chamber  of  his  wife. 
She  lay  upon  the  bed  with  the  babe  he  was  to  look  upon 
for  the  first  time,  not  folded  to  her  bosom,  but  lying  apart, 
while  she  gazed  wistfully  at  its  little  features,  with 
a  weary  look  full  of  dull  anguish,  that  never  would  change 
to  the  lovelight  which  should  brighten  a  mother's  face. 

The  minister,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  leaned  over  her, 
and  would  have  pressed  his  lips  upon  her  forehead,  but 
she  shrunk  down  in  the  bed  with  a  low  moan,  as  a 
wounded  fawn  shudders  at  the  touch  of  its  captor,  and 
when  he  sought  to  comfort  her,  and  speak  out  the  exquisite 
-'oy  that  filled  his  whole  being,  she  looked  up  with  those 
piteous  eyes,  and  muttered: 

"  She  was  mv  sister — mv  sister !" 


LOOMED     TO     SLAVERY.  123 

These  were  all  the  words  she  ever  uttered.  The  shock 
of  his  sudden  presence  had  exhausted  the  last  remnants 
of  her  strength.  She  only  breathed  fainter  and  fainter, 
till  ho:  child,  like  the  little  one  below,  was  motherless. 

The  two  sisters  were  buried  side  by  side,  the  same  tree 
overshadowed  them,  and  in  the  course  of  time  the  flowers 
that  blossomed  on.  one  grave  crept  over  the  other.  Many 
tears  were  shed  over  the  minister's  wife  as  they  lowered 
her  into  the  earth,  but  not  one — not  one — over  the  grand- 
hearted  forest-woman.  For  her  Samuel  Parris  could  not 
weep.  He  looked  upon  her  very  coffin  with  terror.  The 
Nemesis  of  his  life  was  there,  and  would  haunt  him  for 
ever  and  ever.  He  stood  by  the  open  grave,  bowed  down 
with  something  more  awful  than  grief.  In  the  happiness 
of  his  married  life  he  had  grown  vigorous  and  upright; 
but  now  his  shoulders  stooped,  and  his  limbs  shook  like 
the  branches  of  a  dead  tree.  Poor  old  man  !  who  can 
wonder  that  Samuel  Parris  never  held  up  his  head  again  ! 

As  for  the  child,  Abigail  Williams,  she  came  of  a  race  to 
whom  revenge  stands  in  the  place  of  religion — a  race  even 
to  whose  women  and  children  tears  are  a  reproach.  At 
her  mother's  grave  she  did  not  forget  the  proud  lessons  of 
the  kingly  savage  who  taught  even  his  women  to  suffer 
bravely. 

They  had  taken  off  her  Indian  dress,  it  is  true,  but  what 
power  could  quench  the  fire  in  that  young  heart !  She  did 
not  comprehend  the  meaning  of  those  black  garments,  only 
that  she  was  alone,  utterly  alone,  among  all  those  people, 
who  had  been  cruel  enough  to  let  her  mother  die. 

From  that  double  grave  the  young  savage  went  back  to 
old  Titub;i,  the  Indian  woman,  never  in  her  whole  life  to 
know  one  hour  of  careless  childhood. 

Thus  it  was  that  Abigail  Williams  became  the  adopted 


124       ELIZABETH     AND     HER     COUSIN. 

child  of  Samuel  Parris,  and  this  was  the  girl  who,  far  ad 
vanced  towards  womanhood  now,  was  left  in  charge  of  the 
minister's  house  when  he  made  his  eventful  visit  to 
Boston. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

ELIZABETH   AND   HER   COUSIN. 

FROM  the  cradle  up,  Elizabeth  Parris  and  Abigail  Wil 
liams  had  been  as  sisters — nay,  more,  for  while  the  same 
blood  flowed  in  their  veins  and  the  same  household  words 
had  been  breathed  into  their  ears,  there  existed  that  strong 
bond  of  contrast  which  is  sure  to  give  some  degree  of  ex 
citement  to  the  quietest  life.  Abigail  was  the  elder  by 
about  three  years.  She  had  come  to  a  rapid  growth,  and 
her  beauty  possessed  all  the  roundness  and  depth  of  tint 
which  belongs  to  a  full-statured  woman.  Her  mind  was 
like  her  person,  and  both  were  remarkable.  Apt,  bright, 
full  of  intelligence,  yet  gentle,  and  troubled  with  a  shy 
bashfulness  at  times,  which  sprang  from  pride  rather  than 
timidity,  she  was  a  wonder  to  everybody  that  saw  her. 
She  was  so  unlike  other  children,  her  manner  of  doing 
things  was  so  firm  and  gentle,  that  few  even  of  the 
gravest  church-members  ever  thought  of  rebuking  her  as 
they  did  other  offenders,  or  of  petting  her  in  the  same  way. 

She  was  greatly  given  to  study,  but  sometimes  would 
sit  with  her  book  in  one  hand,  or  her  slate  in  her  lap, 
gazing  wistfully  into  the  distance  through  the  window  of 
the  log  schoolhouse,  as  if  her  life  like  her  thoughts  lay 


ELIZABETH     AND     HER     COUSIN.        125 

afar  off,  and  having  escaped  her  lesson,  could  not  be  brought 
back  again. 

The  schoolhouse  commanded  a  broad,  beautiful  approach 
to  the  sea,  and  behind  it  was  a  dense  forest  of  hemlocks, 
oaks,  and  beech,  which  kept  the  earth  forever  in  shadow, 
and  covered  the  old  sodden  logs  and  decayed  stumps  with 
thick  fleeces  of  moss  that  gleamed  out  like  velvet  and  gold 
when  a  sunbeam  chanced  to  strike  downward  and  touch 
the  earth.  Vast  as  the  ocean  itself  stretched  the  shadows 
of  that  forest,  and  Abigail's  face  took  a  deeper  and  more 
earnest  expression  when  she  looked  that  way,  deeper  and 
more  earnest  even  than  when  she  gazed  upon  the  far-off 
waters  and  saw  the  distant  sky  bend  down  and  cover 
their  retreat  with  silvery  rnists.  You  would  have  thought 
the  child  was  searching  for  something  that  was  very,  very 
long  in  coming,  as  she  fell  into  these  long  musing  fits. 
Sometimes  she  would  remain  motionless,  leaning  both 
elbows  on  her  little  pine-desk,  and  dropping  her  chin  be 
tween  her  hands,  for  half  an  hour  together  without  turning 
her  eyes  from  the  shadows  that  darkened  the  forest,  and 
seeming  to  hold  her  breath  lest  it  should  frighten  some 
one  back  that  she  had  been  waiting  and  hoping  for. 
She  seemed  to  be  conscious  herself  that  there  was  some 
one  weird  and  strange  about  these  fits  of  concentrated 
thought,  for  at  every  sound  of  your  voice,  at  every  step 
that  drew  near,  she  would  catch  her  breath,  start  and  look 
up,  as  if  she  expected  something  dreadful  to  happen. 

Speak  softly  to  Abigail  Williams  at  such  times,  or  look 
at  her  with  a'^glance  of  love,  and  her  quiet  eyes  would  fill 
and  her  childish  heart  would  heave,  it  was  impossible  to 
say  why.  But  if  you  spoke  sharply  to  her  when  her 
head  was  at  the  little  window  and  her  thoughts  far  away, 
no  one  knew  where,  the  poor  thing  would  grow  pale,  and 


126        ELIZABETH      AND     II  E  K     COUSIN. 

turn  upon  you  with  such  a  sorrowful  look,  then  go  away 
and  do  as  she  was  bidden  with  a  gravity  that  touched  you 
to  the  heart.  Sometimes  it  would  require  a  whole  day  after 
a  rebuke  like  this  to  restore  the  dye  of  her  s\veet  lips  or 
to  persuade  her  that  you  were  not  half  so  angry  as  you 
might  have  appeared.  But  with  all  this,  the  quickness 
of  her  intellect,  and  the  alacrity  with  which  she  took  to 
study,  was  remarkable  as  her  thoughtfulness. 

But  Elizabeth  Parris  was  in  every  respect  a  very  differ 
ent  child.  If  you  chicled  her  even  to  the  lifting  of  a 
finger,  ten  to  one,  she  laughed  in  your  face,  and  made  you 
laugh  with  her,  in  spite  of  yourself.  Scold  her,  and  you 
got  an  answer  back  that  made  you  love  the  creature  for 
her  very  sauciness.  She  would  mimic  your  step  with  her 
little  naked  feet,  or  the  motion  of  your  head,  or  the  curve 
of  your  mouth,  while  you  were  expecting  to  terrify  her. 
Everybody  was  tired  of  her  in  half  an  hour,  and  yet 
everybody  was  glad  to  see  her  again,  for,  with  all  her 
mischief,  she  crossed  your  threshold  like  a  sunbeam. 

She  was  a  careless  little  romp,  too.  Loved  above  all 
things  to  run  barefoot,  and  was  forever  losing  her  shoes  in 
the  long  grass. 

She  bad  a  hundred  different  ways  of  combing  her  bright 
hair  ;  and,  in  the  winter  time,  if  there  was  an  ice-pond  or 
a  snow-drift  within  a  mile  of  the  village,  she  was  sure  to 
be  sliding  on  the  one  or  wading  knee-deep  in  the  other. 
Still  Elizabeth  grew  very  fond  of  her  book,  and  had  fits  of 
hard  study  that  kept  her  ahead  of  her  class  in  spite  of  her 
wild  ways. 

Out  of  school,  the  two  girls  were  always  together  ;  they 
required  no  other  playmates.  Mornings,  evenings,  and  Sat 
urdays,  especially,  they  were  always  creeping  about  under 
the  great  beech  trees,  with  their  story  books,  which  Abby 


ELIZABETH     A  X  D     HEP.     COUSIN.        127 

would  pore  over,  and  Elizabeth  would  listen  to,  with  fun 
on  her  lips  or  water  in  her  eyes  as  the  case  might  be — 
though  she  was  always  ready  for  a  tumble  in  the  wet 
grass,  a  plunge  in  the  surf,  or  a  slide  from  the  very  top  of 
the  hay  mow,  at  a  moment's  warning. 

Sometimes  they  would  spend  a  whole  day  hunting  for 
early  apples  in  the  thick  grass,  picking  hazel-nuts,  or 
feeding  the  fish  in  the  clear  sea.  Then  they  would  ramble 
about  iu  the  great  solemn  woods  together,  holding  their 
breath,  and  ready  to  say  their  prayers  with  very  awe, 
not  of  the  wild  beasts  whose  track  they  were  on,  but 
from  the  vast  shadows  that  fell  over  them  from  the  trees 
that  were  spread  out,  over  the  sky,  and  the  expanse  of 
shrubbery,  that  seemed  to  cover  the  whole  earth. 

The  sublimity  of  all  these  things  hushed  them  into 
silence,  and  if  they  heard  a  noise  in  the  forest,  a  howl  or 
a  warwhoop,  they  would  creep  in  among  the  flowers  of 
some  solitary  thicket,  and  were  safe. 

Directly  the  danger  had  passed  they  might  be  found 
where  the  scarlet  barberries  glittered  among  the  sharp 
green  leaves,  like  threaded  bunches  of  coral ;  where  the 
glowing  purple  plums,  or  clustered  bunch  berries  rustled 
among  the  foliage  and  rolled  about  their  feet  in  over 
ripeness. 

Into  these  wild  places  they  delighted  to  go,  even  while 
they  were  afraid  to  speak  above  a  whisper,  and  kept 
close  hold  of  each  other's  hands  every  step  of  the  way,  till 
a  sort  of  fascination  crept  over  them,  and  they  grew 
strangely  in  love  with  the  vast  solitude  of  the  woods. 

Such  was  the  love,  and  such  the  companionship  of  these 
two  girls.  In  school  or  out,  all  day  and  all  night,  sleeping, 
waking,  talking  or  dreaming,  they  were  always  together — 

never  apart  for  a  single  day,  up  to  the  t'me  of  our  story. 
8 


128         ELIZABETH     AND     H  E  K    COUSIN. 

The  two  sisters  who  had  been  carried  together  out  of 
the  minister's  dwelling,  and  laid  side  by  side  behind  that 
old  meeting-house,  whose  slender  wooden  spire  could  be 
seen  from  the  school-house  window,  with  the  figure  of 
Death  on  the  top  for  a  weathercock,  were  scarcely  more 
inseparable  than  these  children  had  been,  since  their  hands 
were  linked  in  sisterhood  by  those  new-made  graves. 

And  now  Abigail  Williams  was  approaching  her  nine 
teenth  birthday ;  but  she  looked  at  least  five  years  older 
than  the  sweet,  blue-eyed  Elizabeth. 

She  was  stately  beyond  her  age,  and  altogether  her 
beauty  was  so  remarkable  that  the  people  of  the  town 
could  not  choose  but  turn  and  look  upon  it  as  she  passed 
by  on  her  way  to  school  or  meeting. 

'But  she  had  left  off  school  now  and  took  to  reading 
every  thing  she  could  lay  her  hands  on,  even  to  the 
pamphlets  and  old  newspapers  hoarded  away  in  the  min 
ister's  garret ;  indeed  her  attainments  were  something  won 
derful — she  was  almost  as  learned  as  the  minister  himself. 

Such  was  Abby  Williams,  at  the  period  when  our  story 
commenced.  For  the  first  time  iu  her  life,  she  was  sep 
arated  from  Elizabeth  Parris;  then,  while  the  loneliness 
was  upon  her,  she  was  left  in  solitude,  with  no  human 
creature  in  the  house  but  the  old  Indian  servant  Tituba. 

The  day  after  the  minister  left  his  home,  Abby  was 
Bitting  in  the  room  where  her  aunt  Parris  had  sung  at  her 
work  that  night  when  the  forest  woman  found  her  sewing 
BO  quietly.  The  young  girl  sat  by  the  open  window,  in 
the  very  chair  where  her  mother  died.  She  was  busy 
knitting  on  one  of  those  long  seamed  stockings,  which 
were  an  important  portion  of  the  male  dress  in  those 
times.  Two  balls  of  yarn  lay  in  her  lap,  gray  and  white, 
with  which  she  striped  the  stocking,  seaming  it  every 


ELIZABETH     AND     HEK     COUSIN.         129 

three  stitches.  She  was  expert  with  her  needles,  and  did 
not  look  at  them,  but  sat  gazing  out  into  the  calm 
summer  day,  peacefully  as  her  aunt  had  done,  but  with  a 
touch  of  sadness  in  her  face  ;  for,  as  her  aunt  had  thought 
of  her  unborn  babe  years  before,  she  was  thinking  of  Eliz 
abeth  now. 

In  those  tender  thoughts,  and  in  the  monotony  of  her 
work  alone,  Abby  Williams  resembled  her  aunt.  The 
tropical  bird  and  the  wood  pigeon  had  as  much  likeness 
in  every  thing  else.  The  young  girl  was  singular  and 
picturesque.  In  her  person  was  blended  all  the  beauty  of 
two  distinct  races,  but  in  every  thing  the  grace  of  civiliza 
tion  predominated.  The  delicacy  and  lustre  of  her 
mother's  beauty  were  all  present,  moulding  the  featur3S 
into  exquisite  grace,  lending  a  soft,  purplish  blue  to  those 
bright  eyes,  and  scattering  gloss  and  bloom  among  the 
folds  of  those  heavy  tresses.  The  contrast  of  her  eyes 
with  the  black  brows  and  lashes  gave  a  beauty  to  the  face 
even  more  attractive  than  the  rich  tint  of  her  complexion 
or  the  peachy  richness  of  her  cheek.  The  refinement  of 
civilization  and  the  lithe  grace  of  the  panther  were  blended 
in  her  person.  Her  very  repose  was  eloquent  of  deep  ten 
derness,  and  of  fierce,  slumbering  passion.  When  these 
antagonisms  came  in  contact,  that  young  girl's  character 

ould  break  forth  in  all  its  powers  of  good  and  evil ;  at 
present,  she  was  only  an  humble  maiden  at  her  work, 
lonely  and  a  little  sad,  but  at  peace  with  all  mankind. 

As  she  worked,  Tituba,  the  Indian  woman,  came  in  and 
out  from  the  kitchen,  making  vague  pretences,  as  it  seemed, 
only  to  look  on  the  young  girl  at  her  work.  She  did  not 
speak  once,  for  Abby  was  gazing  afar  off  into  the  shadows 
of  the  forest  as  if  her  fate  lay  there,  and  she  was  striving 

unravel  it  with  her  glances. 


130         THE     BROTHER     AND     SISTER. 

At  last  the  sun  went  down,  and  old  Tituba  came  into 
the  room  again,  chanting  an  Indian  death-song  inexpres 
sibly  mournful  and  sweet,  which  mingled  so  sorrowfully 
with  the  girl's  thoughts  that  she  dropped  her  knitting 
and  leaned  back  in  the  great-chair,  sighing  heavily 

Tituba  kept  on  with  her  chant ;  it  was  the  lament  of  a 
child  over  the  grave  of  its  mother,  given  in  the  Indian 
tongue,  every  word  of  which  went  to  the  young  girl's 
heart,  like  a  reproach.  The  meeting-house,  which  stood 
upon  the  edge  of  the  forest,  lent  force  to  the  old  woman's 
voice,  as  it  died  away  on  her  slow  retreat  to  the  kitchen. 
The  full  moon  threw  its  pale,  ghastly  light  on  the  figure 
of  Death  which  surmounted  its  spire,  and  she  knew  that 
its  shadow  was  that  moment  creeping  over  her  mother's 
grave. 

Unconscious  of  the  influence  that  sent  her  forth,  Abby 
arose,  and,  throwing  a  shawl  over  her  head,  went  quietly 
out  into  the  moonlight,  taking  a  straight  line  for  the 
meeting-house. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

THE   BROTHER   AND   SISTER. 

IN  the  night-time  Abigail  had  never  before  visited  her 
mother's  grave.  Indeed,  she  had  seldom  been  there  alone, 
in  her  whole  life.  Now  the  grave-yard  was  very  dim  and 
shadowy,  for  it  lay  on  the  verge  of  the  forest,  and  a  few 
stray  moonbeams  only  pierced  through  the  pine  bougha 


THE     BROTHER     AND     SISTER.          131 

that  drooped  over  it.  She  was  almost  afraid  to  advance 
close,  for  the  periwinkles  that  crept  over  the  two  graves 
had  grown  luxuriantly  thick,  spreading  over  them  like  a 
torn  pall.  Even  their  flowers,  so  exquisitely  blue  in  the 
day-time,  seemed  black  among  the  darkness  of  their  leaves. 
Beyond  the  two  graves — now  linked  into  oue  by  those 
dusky  creepers — the  forest  was  black  as  midnight.  Hero 
and  there  a  fire-fly  shone  out  in  the  depths  of  the  wood  ; 
here  and  there  a  branch  caught  the  moonlight,  that  fringed 
the  edges  of  its  dewy  leaves  with  silver ;  but  this  only 
made  the  darkness  beyond  more  complete.  She  crept 
towards  the  graves,  holding  her  breath,  afraid  of  the  soli 
tude  and  darkness,  afraid  and  yet  fascinated.  All  at  once 
she  stretched  forth  her  hand,  and  seized  hold  of  a  pine 
branch  which  shivered  in  all  its  slender  leaves,  and  gave 
forth  those  low,  melancholy  sighs,  which  sound  so  like 
human  grief. 

The  young  girl  held  on  to  the  branch  and,  stooping 
forward  with  gleaming  eyes  and  parted  lips,  peered  into 
the  gloom  of  the  forest,  looking  straight  over  her  mother's 
grave. 

All  at  once  she  drew  a  sharp  breath  and  let  go  of  the 
pine  bough,  that  fell  back  to  its  place  with  a  rustle  that 
shook  all  the  neighboring  branches,  and  covered  the  grave 
below  with  a  storm  of  dt-w.  Then,  with  her  head  turned 
back  and  her  eyes  bright  with  new  terror,  she  attempted 
to  flee.  A  crash — a  rush  amid  the  forest  boughs,  and  a 
voice  coming  out  of  the  darkness  ! 

Her  lifted  foot  fell  like  lead  upon  the  grasp,  a  cry  brok« 
from  her  lips,  ami,  still  maintaining  the  first  attitude  of 
flight,  she  seemed  frozen  into  stone. 

"  Ma  bask  a  !" 

Out  from  the  dim  forest  stole  that  name.     Wheu  sbe 


132          THE     BROTHER     AND     SISTER. 

had  heard  it  the  young  girl  could  not  think,  nor  why  it 
fell  with  such  sweet  mournfulness  on  her  ear.  But  she 
knew  that  the  name  had  been  hers ;  in  some  previous  ex 
istence  perhaps,  for  she  never  remembered  hearing  it  before 
with  mortal  ears.  It  thrilled  through  and  through  her. 

"  Mahaska !" 

"  Who  speaks  ?" 

"  Mahaska !» 

As  the  name  was  uttered  a  third  time,  a  figure  came  out 
from  the  blackness,  rustling  through  the  foliage  as  it 
passed,  and  stood  in  the  moonlight. 

Abigail  was  no  longer  afraid,  but,  dropping  into  her  old 
position,  stood  with  one  hand  leaning  on  the  gray  stone 
at  the  head  of  her  mother's  grave. 

It  was  a  savage,  and  yet  a  white  man,  who  stood  before 
her — a  savage,  in  all  the  pomp  of  his  war  garments,  with 
hostile  weapons  at  his  girdle,  and  a  rifle  in  his  right  hand. 
The  crest  of  feathers,  with  which  his  hair  was  knotted, 
fluttered  in  the  night  wind  proudly  as  if  it  had  sur 
mounted  a  helmet.  The  warm  crimson,  that  lined  his 
robe  of  dressed  deer-skin,  and  the  many  colored  wampum 
that  bordered  and  fringed  it,  glowed  richly  in  the  moon 
light.  It  was  a  noble  figure,  and  the  young  girl's  face 
kindled  as  she  measured  him  with  her  eyes. 

"  Whom  do  you  seek,  with  a  tomahawk  at  your  girdle, 
and  a  scalping-knife  within  reach  of  your  hand  ?  I  am 
alone,  and  there  is  only  an  old  woman  at  the  house — no 
help  within  reach  of  my  voice — but  you  see  I  stand  still — 
I  am  not  afraid." 

"  No — not  afraid,"  answered  the  savage,  with  a  proud 
motion  of  the  hand.  "Even  the  women  of  your  race 
should  be  brave.  Mahaska,  step  forth,  that  the  moon  may 
look  upon  your  face." 


THE     BROTHER     AND     SISTER.          133 

Fearlessly,  as  if  she  had  obeyed  that  voice  all  her  life, 
Abigail  stepped  out  of  the  pine  shadow,  and  stood  face  to 
face  with  the  savage. 

"Your  hand  does  not  shake — you  look  into  my  face — 
your  lip  keeps  its  red — the  blood  starts  to  your  cheek  like 
sunset  upon  the  snow  mountains — you  are  not  afraid  of 
the  Indian  ?" 

"  No,  not  afraid." 

"  The  grasp  of  my  hand  does  not  make  you  trem 
ble  ?" 

"  No,  it  sends  the  fire  back  to  my  heart." 

"  What  brought  you  to  the  forest — to  this  grave  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know — stay,  the  old  woman  Tituba  was  mut 
tering  a  death-chant.  It  must  have  been  that." 

"A  death-chant  in  the  Indian  tongue — a  chant  of  the 
Wampanoags  ?" 

"A  chant  in  the  Indian  tongue — but  I  cannot  tell  of 
what  tribe." 

"And  you  understand  it  ?" 

"Yes!" 

"  How — who  taught  you  the  meaning  of  our  death- 
chants  ?" 

Abigail  was  astonished.  She  had  never  thought  of  this 
before.  How,  indeed,  had  she  learned  the  meaning  of 
these  words  ?  Not  from  the  minister,  nor  at  school ;  nor, 
BO  far  as  she  could  remember,  from  the  old  Indian 
woman.  How  then  had  that  strange  language  become 
so  familiar  to  her  ear  and  her  tongue  ?  This  thought,  so 
suddenly  aroused,  bewildered  her.  She  had  no  answer  to 
ive. 

The  young  savage  grasped  her  hand  in  his,  and  she  felt 
that  his  limbs  quivered  ;  slowly,  very  slowly,  he  drew  her 
to  the  grave,  and,  pointing  downward,  said — 


134          THE     BROTHER     AND     SISTER. 

"  It  was  of  her  you  learned  the  tongue  of  the  Wani- 
panoags !" 

"  My  mother,"  said  Abigail,  mournfully,  "  my  poor 
mother,  who  lies  here  so  still — how  could  she  teach  me  a 
savage  language  ?  She,  the  sister  of  my  uncle's  wife  ?" 

"  How  did  she  know — how  could  she  teach  you  the  Ian 
guage  of  our  tribe  ?     Ask  how  deep  the  wrongs  must  be 
which  made  her  forswear  her  own  tongue  as  if  it  had  been 
a  curse  ?" 

"  Hold,  hold  !"  cried  Abigail,  shaking  off  his  clasp  and 
gazing  wildly  into  his  face.  "  Your  speech  is  like  my 
own — English  is  native  to  you,  rather  than  the  savage 
tongue — your  cheek  is  without  paint — your  forehead  too 
white — your  air  proud  like  an  Indian,  but  gentle  withal. 
Who  are  you  '(  Why  is  it  that  you  lay  wait  for  me  in  this 
holy  place,  talking  of  my  mother  as  if  you  knew  her  ?" 

"  Knew  her,  Mahaska  ?  The  Great  Spirit  knows  how 
well !  Knew  her  ?" 

"  My  mother — you — " 

The  young  man  fell  on  his  knees,  and,  leaning  his  head 
upon  the  grave  stone,  remained  silent  a  while,  subduing 
the  emotion  that  seemed  to  sweep  away  his  strength.  At 
last  he  looked  up  ;  the  fire  had  left  his  eyes  ;  deep,  solemn 
n-solntion  filled  its  place. 

Abigail  could  not  speak.  Bewilderment  and  awe  kept 
her  dumb.  For  a  moment  the  young  Indian  gazed  upon 
her,  then  his  voice  broke  forth  in  a  gush  of  tenderness. 

"  Mahaska  !» 

"  Why  do  you  call  me  by  that  name  ?"  cried  the  young 
girl. 

"Because  your  mother  —  your  beautiful,  unhappy 
mother — whispered  it  faintly  as  a  dying  wind  in  the  pine 
branches,  when  her  lord  and  your  father  bent  thankfully 


THE     BROTHEK     A  X  D     SISTER.  185 

over  her  couch  of  fern  leaves,  in  the  deep  forest,  to  look 
upon  his  last-born  child.  Because  his  brave  kiss  pressed 
jour  forehead  in  baptism,  as  that  name  left  her  pale  lips. 
Because  the  word  has  a  terrible  significance." 

"  What  significance  ?"  asked  Abigail,  beginning  to  trem 
ble  beneath  those  burning  glances. 

"  Mahaska,  the  Avenger." 

"  The  avenger  I  Alas  !  alas  !  it  is  a  fearful  name  ;  but 
what  signifies  that  ?  The  consecrated  waters  of  baptism 
have  washed  it  away." 

The  young  Indian  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  Washed  it  away  ?  Washed  the  name  of  our  fathers 
from  your  forehead  ?  I  tell  you,  girl,  it  is  burning  there 
in  the  red  blood  of  a  kingly  sire — in  the  flames  which  de 
voured  the  old  men  and  little  children  of  our  tribe — rusted 
in  by  the  iron  that  held  a  king's  son  in  bondage  under  the 
hot  sky  of  the  tropics.  Look,  maiden,  look  where  the 
ocean  heaves  and  rolls  beneath  the  moon :  there  is  not 
enough  water  in  all  that  to  wash  the  name  from  your 
brow.  Look  upward,  where  the  Great  Spirit  hath  kindled 
his  camp-fires  in  the  sky :  you  will  not  find  flame  enough 
to  burn  it  out.  Look  yonder,  where  the  thick  forest  covers 
the  earth — roll  all  its  shadows  together,  and  through  their 
blackness  all  the  world  would  read  that  name  !" 

Abigail  covered  her  affrighted  face  with  both  bauds. 
Her  brain  was  confused — the  heart  quaked  in  her  bosom 
— all  the  traditions  of  her  life  were  uprooted  in  a  moment. 
Who  was  she  ?  Who  was  the  man,  garbed  like  a  savage, 
but  who  spoke  the  English  tongue  as  if  it  were  his  own  ? 
Was  the  grave  at  her  feet  really  that  of  her  mother  ? 
What  did  the  young  savage  mean  by  that  haughty  air — 
those  proud  words  ? 

The  Indian  came  closer  to  her,  withdrew  the  hands 


136          THE     BROTHER     AND     SISTER. 

from  her  face  very  gently,  and  held  them  with  a  tender 
clasp. 

"Mahaskal" 

Abigail  looked  at  him  steadily,  till  the  tears  rose  to  her 
wild  eyes ;  then,  as  his  hand  grasped  hers  faster  and 
tighter,  she  made  an  effort  to  wrench  herself  away 

His  hands  dropped,  his  face  bent  downward. 

"  Mahaska !» 

"  I  listen." 

"  Surely  as  the  Great  Spirit  looks  down  upon  us  through 
his  stars,  the  woman  who  sleeps  beneath  these  dark  leaves 
commands  you  to  listen  when  I  speak,  and  believe  what 
I  shall  say !" 

"  But  you  are  an  enemy — a  savage  from  the  woods ; 
what  could  you  know  of  my  mother  ?" 

"  Every  thing  ;  it  is  she  who  charges  you  to  believe 
this." 

"  But  if  she  had  a  knowledge  of  you  or  your  people, 
why  did  my  uncle  never  mention  it  ?" 

"  Why  did  he  never  mention  it  ?"  rejoined  the  Indian — 
and  now  the  tenderness  left  his  eyes,  and  the  words  came 
hissing  through  his  shut  teeth — "  because  he  was  the  enemy 
of  your  race.  Father  and  mother  alike,  suffered  at  his 
hands." 

"  What,  my  uncle,  my  good,  pious  uncle,  the  father  of 
Elizabeth  !  I  do  not  believe  it  I"  cried  Abigail  indignantly, 
"  be  was  never  the  enemy  of  any  human  being." 

"  Silence  !"  whispered  the  savage,  "your  words  trouble 
the  ashes  in  that  grave  1" 

That  instant  a  gust  of  wind  came  sobbing  through  the 
pine  leaves,  and  the  dusky  creepers  on  the  two  graves 
shivered  audibly. 

Abigail  drew  close  to  the  savage,  and  laid  her  hand  on 


THE     BROTHER     AND     SISTER.          137 

his  arm.     They  bent  their  heads,  and  listened  till  the 
wind  swept  by. 

"  Is  it  my  mother's  voice  ?•'  whispered  the  young  girl. 

"  Have  you  never  heard  it  before,  sobbing  and  wailing 
among  the  trees,  or  whispering  softly  when  the  leaves  talk 
to  the  night  ?" 

"  Yes  1  oh,  yes  !" 

"Have  you  never  felt  it  in  the  night,  or  here  at  mid 
day  in  the  forest — felt  it  all  around  you,  till  the  heart 
quaked  in  your  bosom,  and  your  limbs  refused  to  move  ?" 

"Ah,  me  !  this  also — this  also  I" 

"And  yet  you  ask,  is  it  the  voice  of  my  mother  ?" 

"Alas,  how  should  I  know  ?  I  who  never,  till  this  mo- 
ment,  dreamed  that  she  who  rests  there  had  wrongs  to 
complain  of." 

"Rests  there — rests!  why,  girl,  it  is  because  she  cannot 
rest  that  the  wind  brings  her  sobs  to  your  ear — cannot 
rest  while  her  youngest-born  finds  shelter  with  the  most 
cruel  of  her  enemies." 

"The  most  cruel  of  her  enemies  !" 

"  He  who  sat  in  judgment  upon  a  weak,  helpless  woman, 
when  she  came  out  from  the  wilderness  with  her  baby 
sister  strapped  to  her  back,  beseeching  shelter  among  the 
people  of  her  mother's  race — the  very  people  who  had 
driven  that  mother  forth  to  die  among  her  enemies,  be 
cause  she  was  of  a  different  faith,  and  believed  in  a  God 
more  merciful  than  the  one  they  worshipped — this  man 
was  Samuel  Parris." 

"And  the  woman,  who  was  she  ?"  cried  Abigail,  wring 
ing  her  hands ;  for  so  many  painful  thoughts  rushing  to 
gether  almost  drove  her  mad. 

"  That  woman  was  Anna  Hutchinson,  the  martyr,  who 
was  driven  from  settlement  to  settlement,  with  her  chil 


138          THE     BROTHER     AND     SISTER. 

dren — like  a  mad  dog  fleeing  with  her  young.  Here 
chained  to  a  cart,  and  lashed  till  her  white  shoulders  ran 
blood,  while  the  strange  man's  God  was  piously  called  on 
to  sanctify  the  deed — there  driven  onward  with  taunts  and 
jeers,  starved,  beaten,  trampled  upon  everywhere.  At 
last  she  fled  with  her  husband  and  her  young  children  into 
the  wilderness,  trusting  rather  to  enemies  embittered 
against  her  race  by  wrongs  deeper  than  hers,  than  to  the 
men  who  hunted  her  down  like  n  beast  of  prey." 

"  But  they  killed  her — they  killed  her — the  Indians 
whom  she  would  have  trusted — her  and  her  little  ones," 
cried  Abigail,  interrupting  him.  "  I  have  heard  the 
story  again  and  again.  Her  children  were  all  murdered 
— she  left  nothing  but  a  dread  curee,  a  curse  that  makes 
the  old  men  whom  it  was  levelled  against  tremble  even 
yet." 

"A  curse,  yes,  the  terrible  curse  of  a  human  being  tor 
tured  to  death — a  curse  that  wails  through  the  woods  and 
stalks  around  your  houses  forever  unappeased,  unfulfilled, 
but  which  grows  deeper  and  louder  every  year." 
Abigail  shuddered. 

"  But  the  judges,  who  sentenced  this  unhappy  woman, 
were  wise  and  God-fearing  men.  Among  them  was  old 
Mr.  Parris,  the  father  of  Samuel  Parris,  my  uncle ;  the 
old  man  died  blessing  God,  and  at  peace  with  all  his 
creatures." 

"He  persecuted  Anna  Hutchinson  unto  death.  She 
was  a  beautiful,  brave  woman,  whose  courage  and  truth 
won  the  hearts  of  liberal  men  to  her  cause.  This  was 
her  fault;  her  smiles,  her  prayers,  her  powerful  reasoning, 
overwhelmed  their  sermons,  and  shook  the  foundation  of 
their  strength.  She  had  disciples — followers — believers — 
was  a  woman  of  great  mind  ;  her  thoughts  were  like 


ANNA     II  UTCHIN  SON'S     CURSE.  189 

maple  blossoms  in  spring,  bright  and  pleasant,  giving  out 
sunshine  ;  but  those  of  her  persecutors  always  crept  along 
in  shadows.  This  woman  was  driven  upon  the  knife  that 
stabbed  her,  by  her  own  brethren.  The  curse  which  she 
uttered  in  her  desperation  calls  louder  and  louder  upon  her 
children." 

"  But  her  children  were  all  slain ;  she  left  no  human 
soul  to  mourn  or  avenge  her — I  have  heard  the  story  too 
often  ;  it  is  written  on  my  memory  as  with  fire ;  why 
bring  it  up  here — what  has  that  to  do  with  me,  or  her  ?" 

Abigail  pointed  to  the  grave  with  her  trembling  finger 
— for  now  she  was  shivering  from  head  to  foot.  The 
story  of  Anna  Hutchinson  always  affected  her  thus ;  from 
her  infancy  she  had  never  heard  the  name  without  a  cold 
chill. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
ANNA  HUTCHINSON'S  CURSE. 

THE  savage  lifted  Abigail  from  the  earth  where  she  had 
fallen,  and  went  on  with  kindling  excitement. 

"No,  her  children  were  not  all  slain.  Two  escaped — 
one,  a  young  girl  pale  as  the  first  cherry  blossoms,  with 
hair  like  the  sunshine  in  August.  The  other  was  a  babe, 
four  weeks  old,  which  this  brave  woman  took  from  her 
bosom  just  before  the  tomahawk  cleft  her  brain.  These 
children  were  carried  into  the  forest,  passed  from  tribe  to 
tribe,  till  the  eldest  grew  to  womanhood.  But  she  re- 


140       ANNA    HUTCHINSON'S    CUBSB. 

membered  her  mother,  and  the  horrible  scene  of  her  murder, 
while  she  knew  nothing  of  the  persecutions  that  drove 
that  mother  among  the  Indians,  when  the  chiefs  were  on 
the  war-path.  So  she  never  took  kindly  to  the  tribe,  but 
always  pined  for  a  sight  of  her  own  people.  At  last  she 
fled,  carrying  the  child  with  her,  and  came  here  to  the 
village  of  Salem." 

"  Here,  here — great  heavens,  can  this  be  1" 
"  But  they  would  not  let  the  child  of  Anna  Hutchinson 
rest;  she  also  dared  to  think  for  herself.  She  was  also 
arraigned  before  the  magnates  of  the  church.  Like  Anna 
Hutchinson,  her  fair  shoulders  were  reddened  with  stripes. 
The  little  child,  whom  she  loved  better  than  her  own  life, 
was  torn  from  her  arms.  Like  a  wounded  deer,  they  sent 
her  into  the  wilderness,  alone,  alone — bleeding  at  every 
step,  uttering  moans  with  every  breath." 

"  Oh,  this  is  terrible  1"  cried  Abigail,  pressing  both 
hands  to  her  heart. 

The  Indian  took  no  heed  of  her  anguish,  but  went  on  : 
"All  day  and  all  night  long  she  wandered  through  the 
tangled  undergrowth,  feeding  upon  the  honeysuckle, 
apples,  and  wild  plums,  that  grew  in  her  path,  calling  in 
despair  on  the  name  of  her  little  sister,  and  praying  to  her 
God  that  she  might  be  so  happy  as  to  die.  For  days  and 
nights  she  toiled  on  with  only  one  object — to  get  farther 
and  farther  from  the  people  of  her  race.  As  a  wounded 
deer  pants  for  spring-water,  she  longed  for  the  wigwams 
and  the  savage  love  from  which  she  had  fled  less  than  a 
year  before. 

"But  she  was  in  the  deep  wilderness  now,  with  no 
track  to  guide  her  way — no  hope,  nothing  but  her  despair. 
She  could  not  even  cry  aloud  to  the  Great  Spirit,  for  his 
face  was  hidden.  Pale  and  hungry,  with  the  shoes  drop- 


ANNA     HUTCH  IN  SON'S     CURSE.          141 

ping  from  her  feet,  her  poor  hands  torn  with  the  thorns 
that  sought  her  out  as  human  hate  had  done,  this  poor 
girl  wandered  on  and  on,  growing  fainter  and  paler  each 
moment.  At  last  she  sank  down,  breathless  and  ex 
hausted,  with  great  tears  rolling  slowly  from  beneath  her 
closed  lashes,  and  the  blue  of  hunger  settling  around  her 
mouth." 

Here  Abigail's  sobs  broke  in  upon  the  narrative.  The 
Indian  waved  his  hand  with  a  gesture  that  silenced  this 
outbreak,  and  went  on  : 

"  The  place  where  she  fell  was  a  deep  ravine ;  moun 
tains  towered  on  either  side,  and  rocks,  covered  with  thick 
mosses,  choked  it  up. 

"  Upon  a  shelf  of  these  rocks,  where  the  buck-horn  moss 
crackled  and  broke  beneath  her,  she  lay  panting  for  life. 
Hemlock  and  pine  branches  stooped  together  and  shut 
out  the  sun — not  a  glimpse  of  the  blue  sky,  not  a  gleam 
of  the  golden  light  that  deluged  the  tree-tops,  came  to  that 
dark  ravine. 

"  There  the  young  girl  laid  herself  down  to  die — hope 
less,  speechless,  alone  !  A  wolf,  half-way  up  the  ravine, 
gave  out  a  howl.  She  did  not  move  or  open  her  eyes. 
It  might  have  torn  at  her  garments  and  found  no  resistance. 
A  glittering  snake  lay  coiled  on  the  flat  of  a  rock  close  by, 
with  its  tail  erect  and  its  crest  in  the  air,  but,  more  mer 
ciful  than  the  men  who  had  driven  her  forth,  it  shook  the 
rattles  of  ten  years  in  gentle  warning,  uncoiled  itself 
lazily,  and,  gliding  over  the  moss  within  half  a  yard  of  her 
feet,  crept  into  its  hole.  She  saw  the  serpent  through  her 
half-shut  eyes,  without  a  wish  to  stir.  Why  not  death  in 
that  shape  as  well  as  another  ? 

"  Then  the  thoughts  died  in  her  brain,  and  the  breath 
sank  to  a  quiver  on  her  blue  lips.  A  stillness  like  the 


ANNA    HUTCHINSON'S    CURSE 

grave  crept  over  her.  She  did  not  hear  it,  but  a  footstep 
sounded  on  the  side  of  the  ravine.  A  leap  from  rock 
to  rock — and  an  Indian  in  his  war  garments  stood  twenty 
feet  above  the  young  girl,  looking  down  upon  her.  He 
turned  aside,  seized  a  sapling  which  bent  to  his  weight 
like  a  bow,  and  swung  himself  downward  upon  the  rock. 

"  She  did  not  stir.  The  lashes  lay  motionless  on  her 
cold  cheeks.  There  was  no  breath  on  those  lips.  The 
young  Indian  gathered  the  pale  creature  in  his  arms,  and 
strove  to  warm  her  against  his  own  brave  heart.  But  it 
was  of  no  avail.  Then  he  thought  of  the  flask  of  fire 
water  in  his  bosom,  and  forced  a  few  drops  through  those 
pale  lips — a  shiver  and  a  deep  sigh — the  lashes  unclose, 
and  the  deathly  eyes  look  into  his. 

"  The  chief  laid  her  softly  down,  took  a  corn-cake  from 
the  pouch  at  his  side,  and  fed  her  with  the  crumbs,  as  if 
she  had  been  a  bird.  After  the  first  morsel  she  grew  eager 
and  craving,  but  the  chief  was  no  common  savage.  He 
knew  that  enough  would  be  death,  and  kept  the  food  in 
his  own  grasp,  paci'ying  her  with  gentle  words. 

"  The  daughter  of  Anna  Hutchinson  understood  his 
language  ;  her  great  mournful  eyes  had  opened  upon  him 
like  those  of  a  wounded  doe  ;  now  they  brightened  with 
gratitude,  and  tears  came  stealing  up,  one  by  one,  till  they 
overflowed. 

"  That  day  the  maiden  rested  in  the  ravine,  for  the  spot 
seemed  like  heaven  to  her  then.  The  chief  gathered  green 
moss  fleeces  from  the  other  rocks  and  heaped  a  couch, 
softer  than  velvet,  upon  which"- she  slept  sweetly,  beneath 
the  shelter  of  his  blanket.  All  night  long  the  chief  sat 
guarding  her  slumbers.  To  him  she  was  a  gift  from  the 
Great  Spirit,  who  had  wrought  the  sunlight  in  her  golden 
hair. 


A  >'  N  A      H  L'T  C  H  1  N  S  O  M  '  S     C  U  R  S  K .  143 

"  When  the  morning  broke,  he  took  his  rifle  and  shot  a 
bird  for  her  breakfast ;  for  the  danger  was  over,  and  she 
might  fare  sumptuously  now.  Striking  sparks  from  his 
flint,  he  built  a  fire  in  the  ravine,  and  roasted  the  gamo, 
serving  it  up  daintily  on  the  last  corn-cake  left  in  his 
pouch.  Then  he  found  a  spring  gushing  from  under  a  rock, 
and  brought  her  a  draught  of  sparkling  water,  in  a  cup 
formed  of  leaves  which  be  made  with  a  single  twist  of  tho 
hand.  The  maiden  smiled  upon  him  in  her  sweet  thank 
fulness,  and,  though  a  brave  chief,  he  forgot  the  war-path 
which  his  tribe  was  pursuing  without  a  leader.  It  was  a 
pleasant  exchange  for  the  maiden,  from  the  cart  wheel  and 
the  white  man's  lash." 

"  Oh,  it  was  paradise  !"  murmured  Abigail,  with  tears 
in  her  eyes. 

"  Yes,  it  was  paradise.  But  a  true  brave  turns  reso 
lutely  from  the  wigwam  to  the  council.  The  young  chief 
could  not  remain  forever  in  the  ravine,  for  he  was  the 
head  of  a  great  nation,  and  the  warriors  waited  for  him  on 
the  war-path.  The  next  moon,  Philip,  the  young  king  of 
the  Pomperoags,  had  given  the  maiden  a  name  that  he 
loved  well — which  signified  wounded  bird,  and,  with  this 
name,  he  led  her  to  the  royal  lodge,  with  her  embroidered 
robes  sweeping  the  earth,  and  crowned  like  a  princess." 

"  And  he  loved  her  always,  this  savage  king  ?"  said 
Abigail,  smiling  through  her  tears. 

"  Yes,  be  loved  her,  and  her  only,  all  the  days  of  his 
life.  It  was  a  regal  marriage,  royally  fulfilled.  For  a  time 
Anna  Hutchinson's  curse  slept." 

"  Oh,   me  !     1    grow   cold    again — that   curse  !"    cried 
Abigail. 
9 


144  GIVEN      UP     TO     BEVBNOK. 

I 

CHAPTER  XT. 

GIVEN   UP  TO   REVENGE. 

"ANNA  HUTCHINSON  had  charged  her  daughter,  that 
golden-haired  young  girl,  with  the  consummation  of  her 
curse.  But  where  love  is,  vengeance  sleeps.  Her  hus 
band's  tribe  was  at  peace  with  the  whites,  and  the 
4  wounded  bird'  had  a  child  in  her  lodge ;  so  she  put  the 
wrongs  of  her  mother  on  one  side,  and  lived  contentedly 
in  her  forest  kingdom.  Why  should  she  urge  her  hus 
band's  warriors  to  the  red  path  while  they  could  plant  corn 
and  hunt  venison  unmolested  ?  She  did  not  yet  fully 
understand  the  persecutions  which  had  driven  her  mother 
to  death.  The  tribe  that  massacred  her  family  had  been 
long  ago  chastised  and  driven  from  their  hunting-grounds 
by  the  valor  of  her  husband — was  not  this  enough  ? 

"No,  no;  the  wail  of  that  curse  still  troubled  the  air 
around  her  lodge,  and  its  spirit  worked  slowly  but  surely 
in  the  white  settlements.  Years  wore  on  ;  another  little 
child  laughed  and  clapped  its  hands  in  the  doorway  of 
King  Philip  ;  and  now,  when  the  kingly  husband  and  wife 
were  in  their  prime,  the  whites,  who  had  grown  powerful, 
began  to  cast  rapacious  eyes  on  the  hunting-grounds  of 
the  Pomperoags.  It  was  the  old  story  of  the  wolf  and  the 
lamb — causes  of  offence  were  soon  found.  The  colonies 
arose  and  armed  themselves.  King  Philip  of  Mount  Hope 
was  a  formidable  enemy.  It  took  brave  men  to  cope  with 
hini.  He  was  a  statesman  as  well  as  a  warrior,  wise  as  a 
serpent  and  brave  as  steel.  The  most  powerful  tribes 


GIVEN      UP     TO      REVENGE.  145 

flocked  to  his  alliance,  some  won  to  his  aid  by  the  elo 
quence  of  his  wife,  others  by  sympathy  and  common 
danger.  You  have  read  in  your  school  books  how  the 
war  against  King  Philip  was  conducted.  You  have  heard 
old  men  and  women  call  him  a  fiend,  and  speak  of  him  as 
the  companion  of  fiends." 

"Yes,  yes,  the  old  women  tell  us  stories  of  his  cruelty." 

"  And  of  his  wrongs,  of  his  courage,  bis  wonderful 
magnanimity,  his  noble  statesmanship — do  they  tell  you 
nothing  of  this  ?" 

"No  ;  only  of  his  cruelties." 

"  And  your  heart,  how  does  that  receive  the  He  ?  calmly, 
or  bursting  with  indignation  ?" 

"  My  heart  aches  within  me  when  I  hear  these  legends 
— aches  and  burns  as  if  a  wound  at  its  core  were  rudely 
touched." 

"Ah!  and  there  is  a  wound,  a  cruel  wound,  deep  in 
your  life.  It  shall  spread  and  burn  through  your  whole 
being.  Listen :  These  Englishmen  voted  themselves 
munitions  of  war,  raised  regiments,  linked  colony  to  colony, 
and  made  each  settlement  the  rivet  of  a  chain  which  swept 
the  coast.  Their  bravest  men  took  the  field — the  whole 
country  was  astir.  These  very  preparations  were  a  tribute 
to  the  heroism  they  were  intended  to  crush — all  this 
force  was  brought  against  the  kingly  savage.  He  met  it 
bravely  where  courage  was  most  likely  to  prevail ;  cau 
tiously  where  prudence  promised  to  husband  human  life. 
He  seized  upon  their  own  tactics,  and  turned  them  in  his 
favor ;  marched,  countermarched,  and  manoeuvred  as  no 
general  of  Europa  has  ever  done.  This  queen  went  side 
by  side  with  him  upon  the  war-path.  She  was  his  council, 
the  companion  of  his  danger.  There  was  not  a  warrior  in 
the  tribe  who  would  have  refused  to  lav  down  hia  life  for 


14:6  GIVEN     UP     TO      REVENGE. 

her.  But  why  tell  you  this  history  ?  You  know  how  the 
strong  man  was  betrayed  by  a  traitor,  murdered  in  cold 
blood,  hacked  limb  from  limb.  Oh,  Great  Spirit,  hear  me, 
and  kindle  in  her  breast  the  rage  that  consumes  mine  ! 
Listen,  girl :  His  wife  and  son  were  taken  prisoners  ;  the 
wife  of  King  Philip  was  dragged  out  of  the  forest  with  her 
son  at  her  side  and  the  last-born  in  her  arms  ! 

"Again  the  magnates  of  the  church  sat  in  judgment  upon 

t  er.     A  ship  lay  on  the  coast,  a  battered  old  vessel  bound 

'  :>r  Bermuda.     This  brave  woman  could  not  be  trusted  in 

he  country — the  ship  would  bear  her  and  her  children  into 

iavery.     The  wife  and  children  of  a  king  were  taken 

torn  the  broad  forest,  with  its  fresh  winds  and  sumptuous 

eafiness,  and  condemned  to  herd  with  negroes  and  slaves 

inder  a  tropic  sun.     That  night,  no  one  could  ever  tell 

how,  the  wife  of  Philip  escaped  from  her  captors,  and  fled 

with  her  youngest  child,  a  little  girl  scarcely  yet  three 

years  old.     That  child  inherited  its  mother's  beauty,  its 

father's  lofty  pride,  and  the  solemn  obligations  of  Anna 

Hutchinson's  curse." 

Again  Abigail  felt  the  cold  chills  creeping  over  her. 

"Ah  me!"  she  muttered,  "that  terrible  inheritance — 
better  that  the  child  had  died." 

"  Better  that  the  child  had  died  than  avenge  such 
wrongs — a  grandmother's  butchery,  a  father's  murder, 
stripes  and  slavery  for  the  mother,  chains,  hard  labor, 
brutal  blows  for  the  young  boy — better  that  she  had  died  ! 
Wretched  girl,  unsay  these  words  !" 

The  anger  in  his  face  was.  terrible,  his  hand  sprung  up 
wards  as  if  to  smite  her.  She  shrunk  awa}-  into  the 
shadow  of  the  pine,  thinkrag  thus  to  escape  his  fiery  glances. 

"  Step  into  the  light  again,  that  your  face  may  unsay 
the  cowardly  words  of  your  tongue  !" 


GIVEN     UP     TO     REVENGE.  147 

"  I  dare  not — you  terrify  me.  "Why  tell  this  horrible 
ptory  here  ?  I  am  young,  helpless,  afraid  sometimes,  and 
talk  like  this  takes  away  my  strength.  I  cannot  think  of 
this  dying  woman's  curse  without  dread.  The  judgment 
of  God  must  follow  it,  and  the  helpless  child,  with  whom 
its  power  was  left — but  perhaps  she  died." 

"And  if  she  had,  was  not  the  son  left,  the  Bermuda 
slave,  with  King  Philip's  blood  burning  beneath  the  lash, 
to  remind  him  of  the  legacy  of  hate  left  against  her  people 
by  his  martyred  ancestress  ?" 

"  It  was  an  evil  inheritance  from  a  woman  who  wrought 
much  trouble  in  the  church,  though  the  atonement  was 
enough  to  wring  one's  heart.  This  Anna  Hutchinson, 
who  died  under  the  tomahawk,  was  a  heretic — a  free 
thinker,  who  would  not  forgive  her  enemies  as  Christ  did, 
but  died  hurling  curses  back  upon  the  people  who  perhaps 
only  sought  to  win  her  once  more  to  the  true  faith." 

"  Hold  1"  shouted  the  chief,  seizing  her  by  the  arm  and 
dragging  her  into  the  moonlight ;  "  hold,  before  the  word 
withers  your  tongue — Anna  Hutchinson  was  your  grand 
mother." 

Abigail  Williams  cried  out  like  a  doe  when  the  arrow 
pierces  it. 

"  The  woman  who  sleeps  there  is  her  eldest  daughter, 
the  wife  of  King  Philip  !" 

"And  I — I,"  whispered  the  poor  creature — writhing  as 
if  in  pain. 

"  You  are  the  child." 

"  The  child  to  whom  the  power  of  her  curse  descends  ! 
oh,  my  God,  have  mercy — have  mercy  1" 

"Mahaska," 

"  I  hear,  oK  heavens,  I  feel  that  the  name  was  mine  1" 
Mahaska,  listen  :  The  blood  of  that  brave  woman — of 


GIVEN     UP     TO     REVENGE. 

that  most  kingly  of  kings — both  betrayed,  both  murdered 
— beats  in  our  veins." 

Abigail  was  cowering  upon  the  ground  at  his  feet ;  she 
had  no  strength  to  stand,  but  as  he  spoke  she  lifted  her 
face  with  a  dull,  hopeless  look,  which  contracted  her  feat 
ures  into^ice. 

"  Who  is  it  that  speaks  ?  who  is  it  that  hurls  this  ter 
rible  birthright  at  me  ?" 

"  It  is  the  son  of  King  Philip,  the  runaway  slave,  the 
man  whose  boyhood  has  been  crucified  beneath  the  driver's 
lash,  while  his  people  were  scattered  abroad — sold,  shot, 
plundered  like  mad  dogs  and  wolves.  Mahaska,  it  is 
your  brother !" 

Up  to  this  time  the  girl  had  been  palsied  ;  now  a  flash 
of  fire  kindled  through  and  through  her,  an  intolerable 
weight  seemed  flung  from  her  brain,  she  stood  up  and  held 
forth  her  arms. 

The  young  savage  took  her  hands  with  a  grasp  of  iron, 
but  he  did  not  embrace  her. 

"  Is  it  the  hand  of  a  king's  daughter  that  I  hold  ?"  he 
questioned,  with  a  sort  of  stern  tenderness,  but  keeping 
her  at  arm's  length. 

"  It  is  King  Philip's  daughter — try  me,  brother :  lead 
the  way  into  the  wilderness  :  I  will  follow :  see  if  I  cannot 
trample  down  all  love  for  my  mother's  enemies  !" 

The  chief  opened  his  arms,  and  drew  the  young  girl  to 
his  bosom,  as  he  had  done  years  before,  when  his  mother, 
striving  to  introduce  some  of  the  amenities  of  life  into  the 
Indian  lodge,  had  given  the  infant  sister  up  to  his  caresses. 

Then  the  blood  spoke  out,  her  air  was  proud  and  firm 
as  his  own,  she  began  to  realize  that  she  was  indeed  the 
daughter  of  martyrs  and  kings,  that  their  wrongs  were 
her  wrongs — their  people  her  people 


THE     ACCEPTED     INVITATION".          149 

"  Take  me  with  you  to  our  people,  before  my  heart 
softens,  or  memory  comes  back.  Here  I  fling  away  the 
love  of  a  life-time — uncle,  cousin,  home." 

She  spoke  wildly,  her  eye  burned,  her  cheek  was  like 
flame ;  she  left  her  brother's  arms,  and  fell  upon  her  knees 
between  the  two  graves. 

'  "  Mother,"  she  whispered — "  mother,  hear  me  ;  check 
those  sobs  on  the  wind,  they  break  my  heart.  I  am  giving 
myself  up  to  you  body  and  soul ;  mother,  teach  me  the 
vow  that  will  content  you  ;  I  will  take  it  here,  while  the 
last  of  our  race  looks  on  !" 

The  wind  swept  over  her,  sighing  like  a  soul  relieved 
from  pain — swept  over  her  in  sweet,  warm  gushes,  as  if 
it  had  been  asleep  in  the  blossoming  trees.  Abigail  cov 
ered  her  face  and  wept ;  when  she  looked  up  again  the 
young  chief  had  gone. 


CHAPTER    XYI. 

THE    ACCEPTED   INVITATION. 

BARBARA  STAFFORD  became  the  guest  of  Governor 
Phipps.  It  was  a  singular  arrangement  on  both  sides, 
for  the  strange  lady  had  from  the  first  retreated  from  the 
idea  with  evident  repulsion,  and  Sir  William  was  the  last 
man  in  the  world  to  receive  a  person  under  his  roof  about 
whose  history  the  slightest  doubt  existed. 

Barbara  offered  no  credentials  of  respectability — she 
submitted  no  letters — made  no  explanation ;  yet  on  the 


150        THE     ACCEPTED      INVITATION. 

bare  recommendation  of  unmistakable  refinement,  and  a 
charm  of  manner  that  had  all  the  power  of  fascination, 
she  became  more  than  a  welcome  inmate  of  the  proud 
man's  mansion. 

The  governor  was  absent  when  Barbara  first  arrived  at 
his  house.  Perhaps  it  was  for  this  reason  she  came  so 
readily. 

Norman  Lovel  took  the  second  invitation.  He  had 
seen  Barbara  in  the  church  on  the  day  of  the  baptism, 
and  strove  in  vain  to  get  near  enough  to  address  her. 
The  rigid  etiquette  of  the  place  forbade  that,  and  all 
night  long  he  was  haunted  with  regrets  for  this  seeming 
neglect  of  a  person  who  had  all  the  claims  upon  his 
courtesy  which  great  hearts  always  concede  to  the  re 
ceiver  of  an  important  favor. 

It  was  a  beautiful,  bright  day,  when  Norman  reached 
the  farin-house ;  pleasant  sounds  filled  the  air — pleasant 
light  fell  on  the  old  stone  house,  the  clustering  trees,  and 
the  far-off  waters — light  broken  up  with  those  transparent 
shadows  which  float  along  with  the  soft  clouds,  that 
sleep  so  quietly  in  the  summer  sky. 

Goody  Brown  was  busy  with  her  spinning-wheel,  tread 
ing  it  vigorously  with  one  foot,  and  drawing  out  the  finest 
and  evenest  thread  from  a  hank  of  flax  that  formed  her 
distaff,  into  a  tall,  gray  cone.  A  pleasant  bee-like  hum 
came  from  the  active  flyers,  and  there  was  something 
kindly  and  good  in  the  prim  woman,  which  was  better 
than  a  welcome  to  one  who  understood  her. 

Barbara  Stafford  sat  near  the  door,  watching  the  old 
woman  draw  out  her  thread,  with  a  calm,  steady  look, 
inexpressibly  mournful.  Her  thoughts  were  far  away; 
she  was  following  back  the  thread  of  her  own  life,  which 
seemed  interminable  as  that  which  glided  through  the 


THE     ACCEPTED     INVITATION.        151 

old  woman's  fingers.  So  Barbara  thought,  and  the  old 
woman's  wheel  droned  on.  They  were  both  very  quiet, 
and  one  was — oh,  how  sad  ! 

Xorman  Lovel  appeared  in  the  door  like  a  sunbeam ; 
his  cheek  was  red  with  walking;  the  wind,  which  came 
moist  and  cool  from  the  ocean,  had  left  its  freshness  on 
his  face.  His  fine  eyes  were  bright  as  diamonds. 
When  he  caught  Barbara's  look,  and  saw  that  a  gleam 
Of  pleasure  stole  through  its  sadness,  he  smiled,  and 
two  dimples  fluttered  about  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 
Barbara  received  him  kindly ;  her  heart  warmed  to  the 
youth,  he  was  so  like  a  child  in  the  cheerfulness  of  his 
presence. 

A  throb  of  strange  satisfaction  beat  in  her  bosom  at  the 
sight  of  that  young  face.  He,  too,  was  conscious  of  a 
swell  of  contentment  as  he  stood  before  the  woman  he  had 
saved.  It  seemed  as  if  he  had  known  her  from  childhood 
up.  The  atmosphere  of  her  presence  was  natural  to  him 
as  the  breath  of  roses.  He  sat  down  on  the  threshold  of 
the  door,  with  his  feet  upon  the  stepping  stone,  and,  while 
the  calm,  beautiful  day  glowed  all  around  him,  began  to  talk. 

Barbara  spoke  of  the  danger  from  which  she  had  been 
rescued,  very  simply  and  without  effort,  but  her  face 
beamed  with  gratitude,  and  her  lips  quivered  as  she 
smiled  upon  him.  ,  Norman  had  scarcely  counted  his 
efforts  that  day  as  an  o,ct  of  heroism,  but  now  he  began 
to  value  the  deed.  Surely  it  was  something  to  have 
saved  a  woman  like  that.  He  watched  the  changes  of 
er  countenance  as  she  spoke  with  singular  interest,  and 
began  to  wish  in  the  depths  of  his  heart  that  she  might 
be  in  danger  again — not  such  terrible  peril  of  course  as 
he  had  witnessed -in  the  boat,  but  enough  to  justify  some 
grand  action  in  her  behalf. 


152        THE     ACCEPTED     INVITATION. 

He  did  not  say  these  things;  indeed  there  was  little 
real  conversation  between  them,  yet  there  was  no  ab 
solute  constraint  such  as  might  naturally  fall  upon  the 
first  meeting  of  persons  so  far  removed  from  each  other 
in  years,  and  in  the  scenes  of  their  lives.  On  the  con 
trary,  the  broken  sentences  and  pauses  of  silence  were 
filled  up  with  a  world  of  pleasant  sensations ;  the  youth 
wondered  at  his  own  happiness,  and  the  lady  forgot  her 
sorrow.  Within  the  last  half-hour  she  seemed  no  longer 
alone  in  the  world.  All  this  time  the  wheel  went  droning 
on,  and  the  thread  lengthened ;  a  human  band  was 
spinning  at  one  end  of  the  room,  and  destiny  at  the 
other. 

At  last,  Norman  remembered  his  errand,  and  repeated 
Lady  Phipps's  invitation ;  coupled  with  a  message  from 
the  governor,  who,  on  leaving  home  for  a  few  days,  had 
delegated  to  the  young  secretary  the  pleasant  task  of 
urging  his  hospitality  upon  the  lady  who  bad  interested 
them  all  so  much. 

Norman  thought  that  the  lady  grew  more  reserved  and 
pale  as  he  delivered  the  first  portion  of  this  message ;  but 
when  he  mentioned  the  absence  of  the  governor,  she 
brightened  up  and  accepted  the  invitation  with  something 
like  excitement. 

Lady  Phipps  had  sent  a  carriage  for  her  guest,  but 
Barbara  refused  the  accommodation.  She  would  walk 
along  the  beach  :  the  day  was  so  bright,  the  sea  breeze  so 
invigorating,  and  the  distance  by  no  means  too  great  for  a 
well-educated  Englishwoman.  The  carriage  might  take 
such  portions  of  her  wardrobe  as  were  necessary,  but  she 
preferred  to  walk.  So  the  two  went  away  together, 
depressed  a  little,  no  one  could  tell  why ;  but  Barbara's 
first  excitement  had  something  restive  in  it,  and  the 


THE     ACCEPTED     INVITATION.        153 

sadness  that  followed  made  her  thoughtful,  and  kept  the 
youth  silent. 

They  came  upon  the  shore,  opposite  the  breakers  in 
which  she  had  been  so  nearly  wrecked.  Some  fragments 
of  the  broken  boat  were  visible,  ploughed  deeply  in  the 
sand.  By  these  alone  she  recognized  the  spot  again. 
The  harbor  was  serene  as  a  mountain  lake,  one  sheet  of 
glittering  silver  swelling  gently  to  the  rising  tide.  She 
looked  wistfully  seaward  a  while,  and  turned  away,  sighing 
heavily,  and  murmured,  with  downcast  eyes,  "  Oh,  if  they 
had  not  been  so  kind  !" 

"  Indeed,"  said  Norman,  "  I  shall  never  forget  your 
looks  that  day,  as  the  boat  made  the  fatal  plunge  ;  were  I 
to  live  a  thousand  years,  those  eyes  would  haunt  me  :  they 
Deemed  black  as  night;  yet  are  so  blue  now." 

"Yes,  I  was  afraid,"  said  Barbara.  "To  die  was  to 
lose  a  great  hope.  It  would  not  be  so  now." 

She  said  this  very  quietly,  but  with  a  depth  of  sorrow 
in  her  voice  that  touched  the  young  man. 

"  The  shock  has  made  you  nervous,  dear  lady.  I  have 
often  heard  it  said  that  terror  does  its  most  cruel  work  on 
the  system  after  the  occasion  that  called  it  forth  is  passed. 
You  are  a  stranger  in  the  country,  too,  and  that  counts  for 
something." 

"Yes,  I  am  indeed  a  stranger." 

"  Not  when  you  have  known  Lady  Phipps." 

Barbara  stooped  down  and  gathered  a  pebble  from  tho 
strand  ;  her  voice  was  husky  when  she  spoke  again  : 

"  Then  you  admire,  you  like  Lady  Phipps  ?" 

"Admire  her — oh,  lady,  that  is  a  faint  word.  Lady 
Phipps  is  almost  worshipped  ;  so  beautiful,  so  generous 
and  kind  hearted." 

"Yes — yes.     I  saw  that  she  was  beautiful;   I  believe 


154         THE     ACCEPTED     INVITATION. 

the  rest,"  answered  Barbara,  speaking  quickly  and  out  of 
breath,  though  she  was  walking  at  a  slow  pace. 

"And  she  thinks  so  highly  of  the  governor — she  Iove3 
him  so  devotedly  !" 

"And  he  ?" 

Barbara  scarcely  spoke  above  a  whisper;  and  her 
eyes  grew  bright,  almost  fierce,  as  she  waited  for  his 
answer. 

"And  he,"  repeated  Norman,  hesitating  a  little,  as  if 
to  reflect  upon  a  subject  which  had  presented  itself  clearly 
before  him  for  the  first  time.  "  Indeed  I  never  thought 
of  that.  Of  course,  he  loves  the  lady  very  much — who 
could  help  it  I  But  the  governor  is  not  a  demonstrative 
man  ;  most  people  think  him  cold — a  man  of  iron." 

"  Cold,  undemonstrative,  a  man  of  iron  !" 

The  words  fell  from  Barbara  Stafford's  lips  like  drops 
of  lead.  She  seemed  to  examine  every  syllable  that  she 
might  ascertain  its  exact  meaning.  A  strange  expression, 
half  doubt,  half  satisfaction,  stole  over  her  features  at  last, 
and  she  walked  on  in  silence. 

The  youth  spoke  again. 

"  You  must  not  let  my  words  give  you  a  false  opinion 
of  Sir  William.  He  is  one  of  the  bravest,  wisest  and  most 
generous  men  on  earth." 

Barbara  looked  up  and  a  glorious  smile  broke  upon  the 
youth. 

"  You  speak  warmly,  sir." 

"  Indeed  I  feel  warmly.  Sir  William  has  been  a  bene 
factor,  almost  a  father,  to  me.  His  own  Bon  could 
not—" 

"  His  own  son  ?  has — has  Sir  William  Phipps  a — I 
thought  he  had  no  son." 

"  Nor  has  he,  lady,"  answered  Norman,  surprised  by  the 


THE     ACCEPTED     INVITATION.          15i> 

sudden  energy  of  her  manner.  "  I  was  about  to  say  that 
his  own  son,  had  he  possessed  one,  could  not  have  been 
treated  more  kindly  than  I  have  been." 

Barbara  Stafford  drew  a  quick  breath,  and  walked  on 
rapidly,  making  this  an  excuse  for  the  long  silence  that 
followed. 

"You  have  lived  with — with  the  governor  some  time 
I  believe,"  she  said,  at  last. 

"Yes." 

"  But  you  are  not  a  native  of  this  new  land  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  was  born  in  England." 

"And  your  parents  ?" 

Norman  blushed  crimson.  "  I  never  knew  my  parents," 
he  said. 

Barbara  Stafford  blushed  also  :  she  had  given  pain,  yet 
that  very  fact  deepened  her  interest  in  the  youth. 

"  Forgive  me,  but  you  have  not  been  reared  without 
care  ;  some  one  must  have  taken  great  interest  in  you." 

"  It  may  be  so,  but  I  never  have  been  able  to  find  that 
person  out ;  my  education  went  on  as  a  matter  of  course  ; 
a  lawyer  of  London  paid  the  bills,  gave  me  lots  of  advice, 
but  refused  me  the  least  information  regarding  myself. 
When  I  had  gone  through  the  different  grades  of  study 
thought  requisite  for  a  gentleman,  the  old  barrister  depos 
ited  a  couple  of  thousand  pounds  in  the  hands  of  Sir 
William  Phipps,  which  he  told  me  was  my  entire  patri 
mony,  and  sent  me  out  here  as  secretary  to  the  governor. 
In  Sir  William  Phipps's  house,  I  have  known  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life  what  the  word  home  meant." 

Barbara  looked  earnestly  at  the  youth  as  he  gave  this 
brief  account  of  himself,  but  she  made  no  further  observa 
tion,  for  they  had  reached  the  streets  of  Boston,  and  from 
the  novelty  of  the  scene,  or  some  deeper  cause,  she  grew 


156  A    LOVERS'    QUARREL. 

silent  and  walked  forward  with  a  reluctant,  heavy  step, 
apparently  forgetful  of  the  questions  she  had  been 
asking. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

A     LOVERS'     QUARREL. 

LADY  PHIPPS  met  her  guest  in  the  hall  bright,  cheerful, 
and  full  of  hospitable  gladness.  Elizabeth  Parris  followed 
her,  but  hung  back  a  little,  shy  of  the  strange  lady,  who 
moved  like  a  princess,  and  smiled  so  strangely  as  she  ut 
tered  the  common-places  expected  of  a  courteous  guest. 
Lady  Phipps  went  chatting  and  smiling  up  the  staircase  a 
little  in  advance  of  her  visitor,  for  she  would  not  allow  a 
servant  to  attend  her  to  the  spacious  guest  chamber. 
Lovel  and  Elizabeth  stayed  below,  watching  the  two 
ladies  as  they  mounted  the  stairs  together.  When  Eliza 
beth  turned  her  eyes  on  Lovel,  there  was  something  in  his 
face  that  troubled  her. 

"  Isn't  she  a  noble-looking  woman  ?"  he  asked,  in  an 
eager  undertone. 

"  Perhaps — no,  indeed  I  don't  think  her  in  the  least 
beautiful,"  answered  the  spoiled  child,  with  a  pout  of  the 
red  lips  and  a  pretty  toss  of  the  head  ;  "  besides — " 

"  Why,  Elizabeth,  you  are  in  a  pet  about  something — I 
don't  like  that  way  of  speaking  about  my  friends." 

"  You  never  saw  her  but  once  in  your  life  !"  said  Eliza 
beth,  with  a  flush  of  the  whole  face,  "  still  you  look,  you — 


A     LOVERS'     QUARREL.  157 

I  declare  one  wmld  think  there  was  not  another  person  in 
the  wide  world,  from  the  way  you  look  after  her." 

"  Ah,  do  I — you  see  it,  I  really  cannot  keep  my  eyes 
from  her  face." 

"  At  any  rate  it  is  not  a  handsome  face  1"  cried  Eliza 
beth,  flushing  more  end  more  redly. 

"  You  have  never  seen  her  when  she  was  talking,  when 
she  was  really  pleased — then  her  face  changes  so  brightly 
• — so — so — " 

"  I  don't  want  to  hear  her  talk — I  don't  care  whether 
she  is  pleased  or  not — I  only  know  this — she  is  not  in  the 
least  beautiful,  and  is  old  enough  to  be  your  mother — 
there  !" 

"  Old  enough  to  be  my  mother,  my  mother  !"  A  sud 
den  thrill  shot  through  the  youth  at  the  word  mother.  It 
sounded  so  strangely  sweet.  Had  Elizabeth  searched  the 
language  through,  she  could  not  have  found  two  syllables 
so  likely  to  form  a  golden  link  between  him  and  the  woman 
they  were  talking  of. 

"  Yes,  I  say  it  again,  she  is  not  pretty,  and  she's  old 
enough  to  be  your  mother — yet  you  must  let  the  carriage 
come  home  with  nothing  but  a  trunk  in  it,  while  you  and 
the  lady  take  a  long,  long  walk  together  on  the  shore,  after 
you  had  promised  to  ride  with  me,  too." 

"  Did  I  promise  ?  forgive  me,  Bessie  ;  I  quite  forgot  it." 

"  Forgot  it — while  I  was  waiting  and  watching  with 
my  habit  on,  and  the  horses  stamping  down  the  gravel  in 
front  of  the  house,"  cried  the  aggrieved  maiden,  and  a  few 
spirited  tears  flashed  up  to  her  eyes,  and  trembled  there 
like  dew  in  a  periwinkle.  "  You  may  believe  it,  I  was 
quite  ashamed  to  let  the  groom  see  how  often  I  ran  out 
into  the  porch  to  look  up  and  down  the  road.  I  declare 
I've  almost  worn  my  riding-skirt  threadbare  with  my  whip, 


153  A     LCVKKS1     QUARREL. 

trying  to  make  the  fellows  think  I  only  came  out  to  dust 
my  habit." 

"  Indeed,  I'm  very  sorry  !" 

"  And  you  all  the  time  promenading  along  the  beach 
with  a  strange  lady,  talking,  smiling — oh,  I  wish  1  were 
at  home  again.  It  was  very  cruel  of  you  teasing  the 
governor  to  consent  to  our  marriage  one  of  these  days,  if 
you  intended  to  neglect  me  in  this  way." 

The  youth,  whose  endowment  of  patience  was  by  no 
means  marvellous,  began  to  be  a  little  restive  under  all 
these  reproaches  ;  they  disturbed  the  pleasurable  emotions 
which  had  predominated  with  him  all  the  morning. 
Worse,  they  impaired  the  angelic  perfection  with  which 
his  imagination  had  invested  the  young  girl;  the  contrast 
between  her  childish  petulance  and  the  sweet  dignity  of 
the  woman  forced  itself  upon  him.  To  be  lectured  and 
reproached  by  a  mere  child  so  directly  after  the  compan 
ionship  and  sympathy  of  that  lady,  struck  him  with  a 
sense  of  humiliation.  He  looked  at  the  young  girl  gravely 
till  the  tears  swelled  in  her  eyes,  then  turned  away, 
angry  and  hurt. 

Lovers'  quarrels  are  mere  April  showers,  giving  life  to 
a  thousand  wild  blossoms  of  the  affection  when  both  are 
in  fault,  and  both  angry  ;  but  when  they  end  in  silence 
and  constraint,  the  November  rain  has  not  a  more  chilling 
influence. 

While  these  impulsive  young  creatures  were  so  busy 
planting  their  first  thorns,  Barbara  Stafford  had  entered 
her  chamber — a  large,  airy  room,  with  four  windows,  all 
draped  with  filmy  muslin,  and  a  large  tent-bedstead, 
shrouded  in  white  till  it  looked  like  a  snow-drift. 

When  the  carriage  first  started  to  bring  Barbara  Stafford, 
Elizabeth  had  been,  like  the  whole  household,  eager  to 


x    LOVERS'   QUARREL.  159 

honor  a  guest  whom  the  governor  had  invited.  She  had 
gathered  up  all  the  unoccupied  vases,  and  filled  them 
with  flowers ;  they  blushed  upon  the  toilet  and  the  chest 
of  drawers,  and  took  the  wind  as  it  swept  over  the  broad 
window-seats,  filling  the  room  with  brightness  and  fra 
grance. 

In  order  to  indulge  her  own  wild  caprices,  she  had 
gathered  all  the  blush-roses  in  bloom,  and  looped  them 
among  the  snow  of  the  curtains.  It  was  strange ;  but 
while  she  stood,  angry  and  flushed,  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs,  longing  to  run  up  and  destroy  her  own  beautiful 
work,  Barbara  grew  faint  as  death  upon  the  threshold  of 
the  chamber.  She  turned  an  imploring  look  on  Lady 
Phipps,  and  said — "  Oh,  take  me  away — I  entreat  you, 
take  me  to  some  other  room." 

"  What,  the  flowers — the  roses  ?"  said  Lady  Phipps. 
surprised  ;  "  I  will  have  them  removed.  How  pale  you  are  I 
how  your  hands  quiver  !  I  would  not  have  believed  that 
the  scent  of  a  few  flowers  could  make  one  so  ill." 

Barbara  was  not  a  woman  to  give  way  to  caprices  of 
the  nerves  ;  she  sat  down  in  the  great  easy-chair,  draped 
with  white  dimity,  to  which  Lady  Phipps  led  her,  swept 
a  hand  across  her  forehead  once  or  twice,  and  lifting  her 
pale  face,  looked  upward  at  a  portrait  of  Governor  Phipps, 
which  hung  in  a  massive  frame  upon  the  wall.  This  was 
the  first  object  that  had  met  her  eyes  on  entering  the 
room.  The  portrait  had  been  taken  years  before,  and  was 
that  of  a  young  man,  spirited  and  full  of  power.  There 
was  a  smile  upon  the  mouth,  a  consciousness  of  strength 
iu  the  glance,  that  bespoke  innate  greatness. 

When  Barbara  lifted  her  face  to  the  picture,  it  was  hard 
and  pale  ;  the  rigidity  of  a  stern  resolution  locked  it  like 
a  vice  ;  but  as  she  gazed,  the  snow  melted  from  her  feat- 
10 


160  A    LOVERS'   QUARREL. 

ures.  The  lips  began  to  tremble,  the  white  lids  drooped 
quivering  over  the  eyes,  and  she  shivered  all  over. 

"  No,  no  !  do  not  remove  the  flowers,"  she  said  gently 
to  Lady  Phipps,  who  had  taken  a  vase  from  the  toilet. 
"  I  am  better  now.  The  walk  was  too  much  for  me. 
Indeed,  I  have  been  subject  to  these  turns  ever  since  that 
terrible  day.  Do  not  blame  the  roses  for  my  weakness  ; 
you  see  how  much  better  I  am." 

She  sat  up  in  the  easy-chair  and  looked  around,  evi 
dently  with  great  effort,  but  striving  to  smile  and  to  subdue 
her  weakness  in  every  way. 

"I  am  glad  you  are  better,"  said  Lady  Phipps,  kindly 
bending  over  the  chair,  at  which  Barbara  shrunk  back  like 
one  who  fears  some  hurt,  "  and  glad  also  that  the  poor 
flowers  can  remain  as  Elizabeth  left  them  ;  she  took  such 
pains  to  gather  and  arrange  them,  dear  child." 

Barbara  lifted  her  head  suddenly,  and  grasped  the  arm 
of  her  chair. 

"  Dear  child — your  daughter,  madam  ?" 

"No.     I  am  childless — we  have  always  been  childless." 

Barbara  sunk  back  into  the  chair  again. 

"I  spoke,"  continued  Lady  Phipps,  smiling,  "of  Eliz 
abeth  Parris,  the  daughter  of  a  very  dear  friend.  She 
was  in  the  hall  as  you  entered.  A  charming  bit  of 
mischief,  who  has  turned  the  head  of  our  young  secretary. 
We  shall  have  some  ado  to  persuade  Samuel  Parris  into 
a  consent  to  the  engagement.  But  he  must  give  way 
at  last — dear  old  soul :  be  is  sure  to  yield  when  Sir 
William  takes  a  thing  earnestly  in  hand.  I  remember,  he 
made  all  sorts  of  objections  to  officiating  when  we  were 
married. " 

"Then  this  old  man — this  Samuel  Parris  performed 
that  ceremony  ?" 


A     LOVERS'     QUARREL.  161 

"  Yes.  Sir  "William  would  have  no  other  minister. 
They  were  old  friends.  Indeed,  Mr.  Parris  was  a  sort  of 
benefactor  to  my  husband  when  he  was  a  poor  boy." 

"And  they  have  no  secrets  from  each  other — these  two 
men  ?" 

Lady  Phipps  exhibited  a  little  astonishment  at  this 
abrupt  question,  but  after  a  moment  she  answered,  with  a 
smile  : 

"  Nay,  that  I  cannot  tell.  My  husband  loves  the  old 
man.  Indeed,  with  the  exception  perhaps  of  Norman 
Lovel,  I  know  hardly  any  one  to  whom  he  is  so  much 
attached  ;  but  as  for  secrets,  I  fancy  Sir  William  shares 
them  with  no  one." 

"  Then  he  is  greatly  attached  to  this  youth  ?" 

"Indeed  he  is,  or  nothing  would  have  induced  him  to 
interfere  about  this  engagement.  Elizabeth  is  like  our 
own  daughter,  and  as  for  Lovel — but  you  have  seen 
him." 

"  Yes :  I  can  readily  understand  your  affection  for 
him,"  answered  Barbara,  with  a  little  weariness  in  her 
manner. 

Lady  Phipps,  who  seldom  dwelt  on  any  subject  long, 
arranged  the  toilet  ornaments  over  again,  and  left  the 
room,  advising  her  visitor  to  lie  down  and  rest  a  little 
after  her  long  walk. 

Did  Barbara  Stafford  rest  ?  Could  she  rest  ?  "Why  had 
she  come  to  that  house  ?  Not  by  her  own  wish  ;  a  sort 
>f  fatality  had  dragged  her  there.  The  evident  desire  of 
roung  Lovel  might  have  influenced  her  somewhat,  little 
as  the  thing  seemed  possible.  She  went  there  as  a  bird 
flutters  into  the  open  jaws  of  a  serpent,  and  remained, 
restless,  unhappy,  and  watchful,  without  the  wish  or 
power  to  change. 


162  A    LOVERS'    QUARREL. 

The  kindness  of  Lady  Phipps  oppressed  her  terribly ; 
she  rather  preferred  the  reserve,  and  almost  evident  dis 
like  of  Elizabeth  Parris.  Like  most  persons  who  cannot 
be  entirely  frank,  she  shrunk  as  much  from  affection  as 
curiosity. 

Lady  Phipps,  with  all  her  warm-heartedness,  was  a 
proud  woman,  and  felt  the  hidden  repulsion  with  which 
her  hospitality  was  met,  without  really  understanding  it. 
Yet,  strange  to  say,  this  only  increased  her  desire  to  win 
the  confidence  of  her  guest. 

From  the  very  moment  she  first  saw  the  foreign  lady 
sitting  in  the  sunshine  by  the  old  slone  farm-house,  this 
desire  had  risen  in  her  heart,  and  grew  upon  her  like  a 
fascination. 

She  would  have  given  any  thing  for  one  down-right, 
cordial  beam  of  affection  from  those  downcast  eyes,  which 
seemed  forever  to  look  beyond,  or  glance  aside  from  her 
face  in  the  most  friendly  moments. 

Yet  a  third  party  would  have  seen  nothing  strange  in 
this  visit.  The  etiquette  of  life  went  on  quietly  and  with 
high-bred  elegance.  Nothing  but  soft  words  and  gentle 
courtesies  passed  from  morning  till  night,  yet  there  was 
not  a  happy,  or  even  contented,  heart  in  the  house. 

But  the  most  remarkable  change  fell  upon  young  Lovel. 
He  became  dreamy,  almost  sad,  the  brilliancy  of  his 
youth  seemed  to  have  withered  up  suddenly.  Instead  of 
the  dashing  gayety,  for  which  1 1  was  so  remarkable,  a 
pleasant  sadness  crept  over -him;  he  smiled  now  where 
he  had  laughed  before.  He  forgot  to  perpetuate  or 
renew  the  little  quarrel  which  had  sprung  up  between 
himself  and  Elizabeth  on  the  first  day  of  Barbara  Staf 
ford's  visit,  and  though  the  poor  girl  went  about  the 
house  with  heavy  eyes  and  flushed  cheeks  all  that  day, 


A     LOVERS'      QUARREL.  163 

he  did  not  seem  conscious  of  it.  Alas  for  the  woman  who 
is  doomed  to  bring  such  discord  into  a  household  where 
love  has  been  almost  perfect  before  1 

Elizabeth  was  a  bright,  single-hearted  young  creature, 
proud,  impulsive,  and  full  of  generous  qualities.  Before 
nightfall  that  evening  she  had  repented  of  her  petulance, 
and  pined  for  a  reconciliation  with  her  young  lover ;  still 
he  did  not  seek  her,  did  not  even  seem  to  know  that  she 
was  suffering,  but  went  away  into  the  garden  by  himself, 
and  walked  moodily  up  and  down  the  gravel  walks. 

Elizabeth  had  grown  very  humble  by  this  time.  Quar 
rels  may  be  pleasant  in  flirtations,  but  where  real  love  is, 
they  trouble  a  good  heart  as  sin  would  torment  an  angel. 
After  a  little  struggle,  in  which  pride  leaped  in  fire  to  her 
cheeks,  while  regret  filled  her  eyes  with  tears,  and  set  her 
sweet  lips  trembling  like  rosebuds  in  a  fall  of  summer 
rain,  she  went  down  the  walk,  holding  out  her  pretty 
hand,  like  a  naughty  child,  seized  with  sudden  awkward 
ness,  anxious  to  confess  herself  in  the  wrong,  but  not 
knowing  how  to  begin. 

"  Norman,"  she  said,  and  the  little  hand  fell  softly  upon 
his  arm,  "  Norman,  I  am  so  sorry  !" 

The  young  man  started  and  looked  up,  as  if  he  had  been 
half  asleep  till  then. 

"  Sorry,  Elizabeth  ;  and  for  what  ?" 

He  spoke  naturally,  and  looked  surprised.  Anger,  even 
rage,  would  have  been  far  less  cruel  than  this  forgetfulness 
of  words  that  bad  wrung  her  heart  to  the  core.  She  could 
not  speak,  but  drew  her  hand  back,  looking  at  him  with 
those  large  blue  eyes  slowly  filling  with  anguish. 

That  look  must  have  aroused  him  had  it  really  fixed 
his  glance  ;  but  on  the  instant,  Barbara  Stafford  came 
into  the  garden  alone.  A  white  scarf  was  wound  over 


164  A.    LOVERS'    QUARREL. 

her  head,  in  double  folds,  and  there  was  a  look  in  her 
face,  as  she  turned  it  with  a  bend  towards  the  sunset, 
which  reminded  the  youth  of  the  features  of  Beatrice 
Cenci,  which  he  had  once  seen  and  almost  wept  before,  in 
Rome.  He  forgot  the  young  girl  who  hovered  like  a 
wounded  bird  in  his  path,  and  went  towards  the 
woman. 

Elizabeth  followed  him  with  her  eyes ;  she  saw  the 
smile — that  luminous,  eloquent  smile,  with  which  Barbara 
greeted  the  youth  :  a  smile  that  no  human  being  ever  saw 
to  question  the  woman's  beauty  afterwards.  The  tears 
trembling  in  her  eyes,  fired  up  like  diamonds.  She  dashed 
them  upon  the  air  with  a  sweep  of  her  hand,  and  turned 
away  bumbled,  haughty,  and  almost  heart-broken. 

It  will  be  a  long  time,  Norman  Lovel,  before  that  girl 
asks  pardon  of  you  again  ;  she  is  almost  ready  to  scoff  at 
herself  for  loving  you ;  her  foot  presses  the  tessellated 
floor  of  that  hall  with  the  tread  of  a  queen. 

She  looked  forth  from  the  window  of  her  chamber,  and 
saw  them  walking  together;  Norman,  her  lover,  and  the 
strange  lady.  He  was  evidently  listening  to  her  as  she 
conversed,  for  his  face  was  turned  upon  her  with  a  look 
of  absorbing  attention,  and  it  brightened  eloquently, 
though  he  did  not  smile — the  talk  seemed  too  earnest  and 
serious  for  that.  She  could  not  remember  the  time  when 
he  had  looked  at  her  with  such  devotion.  Poor  child  ! 
her  heart  was  sick  with  jealousy — and  of  whom  ? 

They  walked  together  tilljthe  new  moon  rose,  and  hung 
like  a  golden  sickle  over  the  trees ;  then  they  moved 
quietly  towards  the  house,  and  Elizabeth  heard  the  lady 
retreat  to  her  own  room,  while  Lovel  wandered  off  into 
the  grounds,  without  once  glancing  up  at  the  window 
where  she  stood.  How  bitterly  she  began  to  hate  the 


GATHERING     ROSES     AND    THORNS.    165 

woman  who,  without  youth  or  a  tithe  of  her  own  rare 
beauty,  had  taken  possession  of  a  heart  which  had  been 
so  completely  hers. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

GATHERING   ROSES  AND   THORNS. 

THUS  it  went  on  day  after  day.  Barbara  lost  some 
thing  of  her  gloom  ;  a  new  feeling,  strange  and  inexpres 
sibly  sweet,  brought  back  freshness  to  the  life  that  had 
become  almost  a  burden.  Strong  concentration  was  a 
vital  portion  of  her  nature ;  her  thoughts  fixed  on  one  ob 
ject,  clung  to  it  like  ivy  to  a  ruin  ;  force  itself  could  not 
tear  them  away.  She  asked  herself  again  and  again, 
what  it  was  that  centred  the  best  portion  of  her  nature 
around  that  youth — love  !  the  blush  of  a  haughty  shame 
heated  her  cheek  as  the  word  presented  itself,  disturbing 
the  august  repose  of  her  womanhood  ;  besides,  was  not 
that  heart  closed  and  locked  over  one  image  ?  In  all 
those  years  bad  she  kept  it  sacred  to  turn  the  golden  key 
at  last,  that  a  mere  youth  might  jostle  her  idol  in  its  sanc 
tuary  ?  Barbara  laughed  at  the  thought,  she  dashed  it 
aside  with  a  strong  will,  and  contented  herself  with  the 
remembrance  that  Norman  had  saved  her  life,  and  that 
gratitude  with  her  was  stronger  than  the  love  of  most 
women.  As  for  Norman,  he  never  thought  deeply  in 
those  years ;  he  did  not  even  attempt  to  understand  his 
own  feelings ;  he  had  saved  the  life  of  a  woman  whose 
presence  and  character  filled  him  with  the  most  profound 


166     GATHERING     KOSES    AND     THORNS. 

admiration  ;  her  society  had  opened  a  new  phase  of  exist 
ence  to  him ;  he  did  not  quite  know  whether  he  had 
ceased  to  love  Elizabeth  or  not ;  there  was  no  room  in  his 
thoughts  for  the  question.  In  his  passionate  nature  the 
last  sensation  was  sure  to  overwhelm  all  others,  at  least 
for  the  time. 

Elizabeth  was  young,  and  had  not  learned  that  most 
important  lesson  of  life,  how  to  wait.  To  her  this  interest 
in  another  seemed  an  infatuation  that  must  last  forever. 
The  bitterness  and  grief  of  this  thought  developed  her 
character  as  a  storm  beats  the  flowers  open.  She  was  no 
longer  the  childish  creature  who  unlocked  the  door  that 
eventful  morning  for  Norman  Lovel ;  pride,  resentment, 
a  haughty  power  of  self-torture,  had  rendered  her  womanly 
like  the  rest. 

At  first  Barbara  made  some  effort  tq  win  the  confidence 
of  this  young  girl,  but  the  reserve  with  which  her  advances 
were  met,  soon  chilled  the  wish  into  indifference.  Thus 
the  two  fell  wider  and  wider  apart,  stretching  the  thread 
of  destiny  which  was  sure  to  connect  them  at  last,  till  it 
grew  small  as  the  film  of  a  spider's  web,  but  never  broke. 

One  day  Elizabeth  went  into  the  chamber  where  Lady 
Phipps  sat  alone,  busy  with  some  fine  needle-work.  She 
drew  a  stool,  and  seating  herself  upon  it,  laid  her  head  in 
the  lady's  lap,  and  looked  up  in  her  face  with  a  long, 
mournful  gaze,  that  made  that  kind  heart  swell  beneath 
its  lace-kerchief. 

"Why,  Bessy  child,  what  is  it  troubles  you?  these 
heavy,  heavy  eyes  frighten  me-;  is  any  thing  the  matter  ?" 

"  Oh,  mother !"  A  warm  color  rushed  into  Lady 
Phipps's  cheek  at  the  word  mother ;  it  was  the  first  time 
that  most  sacred  term  had  ever  been  addressed  to  her. 

"  Well,  my  child — my  child  !"  the  kind  woman 


G  A  THE  KING     ROSES    AND    THORNS.     167 

the  woid  twice,  with  a  sort  of  bashful  pleasure,  for  they 
sprung  to  her  lips  like  honey-dew. 

"Oh,  I  wish  so  much  that  you  were  indeed  my  mother, 
for  then  I  could  tell  you  how — how  very  unhappy  I  am." 

Lady  Phipps  bent  down,  removed  the  bright  hair  from 
the  young  girl's  forehead,  and  kissed  it  tenderly. 

"  I  am  your  mother,  darling ;  she  who  is  dead  could 
scarcely  have  loved  you  more :  now  tell  me  what  this 
trouble  is." 

Elizabeth  turned  her  face,  and  buried  it  in  the  lady's 
robe. 

"  This  lady — this  strange  woman — this  Barbara  Stafford 
— oh,  send  her  away  !" 

"  Why,  what  of  her,  my  child  ? — remember  she  is  our 
invited  guest,  a  stranger,  and — " 

"  I  know — I  know  all  that,  but  she  is  killing  me — she 
drinks  up  my  life  like  a  vampire." 

"  Like  a  vampire — that  pleasant,  noble  woman  !  Why 
Bessy  child,  you  must  be  ill  !" 

"  There,  there  !  she  has  fascinated  you  like  the  rest ;  I 
have  nobody  left  to  care  about  or  pity  me  ;  she  has  dried 
up  every  little  spring  of  love  that  I  used  to  drink  at,  and 
nobody  sees  it." 

Elizabeth  rose  to  her  feet,  flinging  back  the  curls  from 
her  face  with  both  hands,  and  casting  glances  of  reproach 
upon  the  lady. 

"  You  against  me — you  her  friend — I  hope  you  will 
never  live  to  repent  of  it !" 

"  My  dear  child  !" 

"  Don't  call  me  that ;  I  won't  be  the  child  of  her  friend  1 
You  have  seen  it  all :  how  she  came  with  her  smiles  and 
her  bright  words  to  steal  the  heart  that  belonged  to  me 
— vou  have  seen  them  together  half  the  time  in  the  garden 


1 08     GATHERING     It  O  S  F.  S    AND     THORNS. 

—in  the  portico — wherever  the  place  was  shady,  and  no* 
one  likely  to  intrude.  Then  you  ask  me  with  that  kind 
voice,  just  as  ever,  '  Elizabeth,  what  is  it  troubles  you  ?' ' 

Lady  Phipps  could  not  help  smiling  a  little,  for,  occu 
pied  with  her  own  pleasant  duties,  she  had  scarcely  no 
ticed  the  things  of  which  Elizabeth  complained,  and  this 
outbreak  of  jealousy  amused,  while  it  distressed  her. 

"  Bessie,  this  is  childish — it  is  absurd — of  course  Norman 
would  do  every  thing  in  his  power  to  amuse  our  guest — 
it  is  his  duty ;  besides,  you  know  he  saved  her  life,  and 
that  counts  for  a  great  deal.  We  always  like  those  we 
have  served;  nothing  is  more  natural !" 

"But  we  do  not  forget  our  old  friends — we  do  not 
abandon  all  the  world  for  them !" 

"  Nor  has  Lovel.  Be  patient  till  the  novelty  of  this 
visit  is  worn  away." 

Lady  Phipps  held  out  her  hand  with  a  pleading  tender 
ness  that  brought  the  wayward  girl  to  her  feet  again. 

"  Foolish  child  !"  she  said,  taking  the  fair  young  face 
between  both  hands  and  kissing  it.  "  Foolish,  foolish 
child  !" 

"  You  would  not  think  it  foolish  if  she  had  snared  Sir 
William,  and  shut  his  heart  against  you  !" 

Lady  Phipps  dropped  her  hands  slowly,  and  a  strange 
look  came  to  her  eyes. 

"  You  talk  wildly,  Elizabeth,"  she  said,  in  a  faltering 
voice. 

"  She  came  between  him  and  heaven  when  he  stood  by 
the  altar  to  be  baptized.  You  did  not  see  her ;  no  one  saw 
her,  I  think,  except  myself;  but  the  cup  of  wine  trembled 
in  his  hand,  be  grew  pale  as  death.  It  was  her  shadow 
touching  him  as  she  passed  up  the  aisle." 

"  I  remember  this.     He  did  grow  pale ;  I  never  saw 


GATHERING    ROSES    AND    THORNS.    169 

my  husband  tremble  before.  But  it  was  a  solemn  occa 
sion,  and  Sir  William  felt  it  deeply.  If  this  lady  was 
present,  I  am  sure  he  did  not  know  it." 

Lady  Phipps  spoke  half  to  her  own  thoughts,  half  to 
the  young  girl,  who  lay  sobbing  in  her  lap  ;  seized  with 
regret  for  the  words  she  had  spoken  the  moment  their 
effect  became  visible  in  the  features  and  voice  of  her 
benefactress. 

"  I  think  no  one  saw  her  but  myself  and  Norman," 
sobbed  the  girl.  "  She  stood  back  from  the  altar,  and 
did  not  come  out  with  the  rest.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if 
the  house  grew  darker  when  she  entered  it.  Oh,  Lady 
Phipps — Lady  Phipps,  she  is  a  terrible  woman  !" 

The  lady  was  too  just  and  generous  for  these  wild 
denunciations  to  influence  her  ;  but  she  grew  watchful  of 
her  guest,  and  the  distrust  floating  in  her  mind  after  this 
conversation  deepened  almost  to  dislike  before  her  hus 
band  returned. 

Keenly,  almost  as  Elizabeth  herself,  she  watched  the 
intimacy  which  had  sprung  up  between  Barbara  and  the 
young  secretary — an  intimacy  that  seemed  to  have  shut 
her  out  from  the  young  man's  regard  almost  as  completely 
as  it  had  separated  him  from  Elizabeth. 

Barbara  Stafford  was  unconscious  of  the  bitter  feelings 
which  her  presence  in  that  house  had  brought  to  life. 
Preoccupied  by  many  painful  thoughts,  she  gave  herself 
no  opportunities  for  observation.  She  did  not  remark 
that  every  hour  threw  her  more  and  more  into  the  society 
of  the  youth ;  and  that,  her  intercourse  with  the  ladies 
contracted  itself  almost  to  the  commonest  courtesies  of 
life. 

One  evening  Barbara  and  Norman  came  up  from  the 
garden  as  usual,  when  the  dusk  had  closed  in  upon  them. 


170    GATHERING    ROSES    AND    THORNS. 

and  seated  themselves  in  the  front  portico.  Elizabeth 
was  alone  on  one  of  the  side  seats  when  they  came  up. 
She  had  become  used  to  this  kind  of  solitude  now,  and 
rather  sought  it  than  otherwise.  The  young  are  always 
ready  to  convert  sorrow  into  martyrdom. 

She  arose  as  they  mounted  the  steps,  and  prepared  to 
retreat  into  the  house ;  but  Barbara,  whose  old  nature 
came  out  of  its  sadness  whenever  she  had  been  long  with 
Norman,  spoke  to  her  with  that  gentle  empressement 
which  few  persons  could  resist. 

"  Do  not  leave  us,  Miss  Parris,"  she  said  ;  "  the  evening 
is  so  lovely." 

It  was  not  the  words ;  they  were  nothing  ;  but  there 
was  a  spell  in  Barbara  Stafford's  voice  that  even  hatred 
could  not  resist.  Elizabeth  sat  down,  holding  her  breath. 

Barbara  carried  a  quantity  of  red  roses  in  her  hand, 
which  Norman  had  gathered  from  a  plant  in  the  garden. 
Some  memory  was  aroused  by  the  flowers,  which  caused 
her  to  receive  them  with  reluctance.  She  had  held  the 
roses  for  a  moment,  as  if  doubtful  whether  to  place  them 
on  her  bosom  or  dash  them  to  the  earth  ;  but  seeing  that 
her  hesitation  annoyed  the  youth,  carried  them  in  her 
band. 

"You  are  young,"  she  said,  laying  the  roses  in  Eliza 
beth's  lap  ;  "  flowers  should  whisper  only  cheerful  things. 
To  you  they  will  speak  of  the  present,  and  that  should  be 
gladsome.  When  they  bring  back  the  past  to  any  one,  it 
is  always  a  pain.  Young  gejitleman,  hereafter  you  shall 
gather  roses  only  for  ladies  who  have  hopes,  like  your 
self!" 

Elizabeth's  first  impulse  was  to  take  up  the  flowers 
from  her  lap,  and  throw  them  over  the  railing  behind  the 
•eat;  but  the  very  sound  of  Barbara's  voice  drove  this 

I 


GATHERING    ROSES    AND    THORNS.    171 

bitter  pride  from  her  heart.  She  allowed  them  to  remain 
in  her  lap — thought  of  the  blush  roses  he  had  given  to  her 
go  little  time  before  in  that  very  place,  and  bent  her  head 
lower  and  lower  that  Norman  might  not  see  the  tears 
which  gathered  in  her  eyes. 

Barbara  did  not  observe  these  tears,  for  Elizabeth  sat 
so  much  in  the  shadow  that  the  drooping  outline  of  her 
figure  alone  was  visible ;  but  this  was  enough  to  enlist 
the  quick  sympathy  of  a  woman  who  never  looked  un 
moved  on  human  sorrow.  She  sat  down  at  once,  and 
with  a  movement  of  tender  interest  took  the  little  hand 
which  had  fallen  among  the  flowers.  Elizabeth  started  as 
if  a  serpent  had  crept  out  from  among  the  roses  and 
stung  her  palm.  But  scarcely  had  Barbara's  fingers 
closed  on  hers,  when  she  was  seized  with  an  irresistible 
impulse  to  return  their  clasp  ;  and,  in  her  sorrow,  she 
leaned  towards  the  woman,  whom  she  had  hated  so 
bitterly  a  few  moments  before,  as  a  sun -flower  bends 
towards  the  sun. 

Barbara  felt  the  change,  without  understanding  it. 
This  gift  of  winning  affection  with  a  look,  and  of  turning 
hate  into  love,  was  the  great  power  of  her  character. 
She  did  not  herself  comprehend  it,  but  the  very  mag 
netism  of  her  presence  was  a  prerogative  richer  than  that 
of  royalty,  and  as  dangerous.  Something  kindred  to  this 
power  existed  in  the  youth  ;  it  was  perhaps  this  subtle 
feeling  that  drew  these  persons  into  their  present  com 
panionship. 

When  her  heart  was  full  of  either  joy  or  sadness, 
Barbara  Stafford  conversed  beautifully.  Her  voice,  as  I 
have  said,  was  full  of  tenderness  and  pathos;  it  came 
from  the  heart  like  a  gush  of  spring  water.  She  was 
depressed  that  evening ;  a  little  thing  suffices  to  draw 


172    GATHERING    ROSES    AND    THORNS. 

out  the  low  tones  of  a  nature  like  here.  Some  angel  bad 
come  out  from  the  past,  and  troubled  the  waters  of  her 
soul ;  no  matter  upon  what  her  conversation  turned,  the 
melody  of  these  waters  was  certain  to  ripple  through. 

She  dropped  into  conversation  as  they  all  sat  together, 
pursuing  no  particular  subject,  but  wandering  from 
thought  to  thought,  an  a  forest-bird  touches  this  branch 
and  then  another,  in  its  flight  upward.  Elizabeth  leaned 
towards  her,  and  listened  ;  she  saw  the  eyes  of  her  young 
lover  kindle  under  the  influence  of  those  words,  till  their 
brightness  was  visible  in  the  gathering  mist.  She  felt  no 
resentment  then.  With  her  hand  clasped  in  those  caress 
ing  fingers,  to  love  that  woman  seemed  the  most  natural 
thing  in  life.  She  began  even  to  join  in  the  conversation, 
to  call  Lovel  by  his  given  name,  and,  for  the  time,  turn 
back  pleasantly  to  her  old  friendly  ways.  After  a  little, 
Norman  came  over  from  his  place  opposite  the  two  ladies, 
and  sat  down  on  the  other  side  of  Elizabeth.  His  hand 
stole  in  among  the  roses,  and  Barbara  left  that  of  Eliz 
abeth  in  its  clasp.  The  heart  of  the  young  girl  began  to 
swell :  she  leaned  her  bead  upon  Norman's  shoulder,  and 
wept  silently. 

A  little  time  more,  and  those  two  young  souls  would 
have  been  reconciled  again.  A  human  heart-throb  must 
sometimes  unweave  that  chain  of  passing  events  which 
men  call  destiny ;  but  here  it  was  not  to  be. 

The  sound  of  horses'  feet  came  along  the  road,  slowly 
and  heavily,  as  if  the  tired  animals  were  returning  from 
a  long  journey.  The  little  group  in  front  of  Governor 
Phipps's  house  ceased  speaking,  and  listened. 

"  It  is — it  is  my  father,"  cried  Elizabeth,  starting  up ; 
"  see,  they  turn  this  way !  It  is  the  governor,  and  my 
father  I" 


GATHERING    ROSES    AND    THORNS.    173 

Barbara  Stafford  gathered  the  shawl  around  her,  shiver 
ing,  till  the  teeth  chattered  in  her  head  ;  but  she  sat  still, 
with  her  features  lost  in  the  shadow  of  the  porch ;  she 
seemed  chilled  through  by  the  night  air. 

Norman  Lovel  descended  the  steps,  and  stood  waiting 
for  the  horses  to  come  up.  A  week  before,  Elizabeth 
would  have  sprung  to  his  side ;  now,  she  stood  alone  a 
moment,  then  ran  into  the  house  to  inform  Lady  Phipps 
of  her  husband's  coming. 

Barbara  Stafford  arose,  looked  through  the  gathering 
darkness,  and  saw  three  horsemen  moving  towards  the 
house  ;  they  dismounted  ;  one  paused  on  the  terrace,  strug 
gling  against  his  own  eager  wishes.  The  other  came 
hurriedly  up  the  steps.  The  third,  who  was  a  servant, 
wheeled  around,  and  rode  towards  the  stables,  leading  the 
two  weary  horses  by  their  bridles. 

Barbara  Stafford  turned  from  the  terrace  as  the  man 
came  up  ;  the  twilight  clung  around  her  like  a  veil ;  there 
she  stood  motionless — she  had  been  searching  in  vain  for 
the  door  latch.  He  came  up  the  steps,  saw  a  female 
figure  in  the  gloom,  and  held  out  his  arms. 

"  My  wife !" 

Barbara  Stafford  had  no  power  to  move ;  she  felt  his 
arms  around  her,  she  felt  herself  strained  to  his  bosom,  and 
his  lips  pressed  upon  hers.  That  instant  the  door  opened, 
and  Lady  Phipps  stood  upon  the  threshold  in  a  river  of 
light,  which  flowed  out  from  the  hall. 


174     CONVERSATION     ON     THE     PORCH. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

CONVERSATION    ON    THE   PORCH. 

As  the  opening  door  revealed  that  unexpected  scene, 
Lady  Phipps  started  forward  with  a  smothered  exclama 
tion,  half  surprise,  half  horror.  Then  she  as  suddenly 
drew  back,  leaned  against  the  wall  for  support,  and  looked 
full  in  her  husband's  face,  outwardly  still  and  calm  from 
the  very  agitation  of  her  feelings. 

Sir  William  raised  his  eyes  and  met  the  fixed  gaze  of 
his  wife.  His  perplexed  glance  wandered  to  the  bending 
form  clasped  to  his  bosom,  the  white  hands  folded  upon 
his  shoulder,  and  the  head,  with  its  weight  of  dimly  re 
vealed  hair,  lying  against  his  heart.  With  a  quick  motion 
of  his  hand  he  pushed  Barbara  Stafford  away,  and  stood 
upright,  though  a  tremor,  for  which  he  could  not  account, 
ran  through  his  whole  frame.  He  was,  in  truth,  strangely 
agitated,  and  the  sudden  pallor  which  changed  his  face, 
so  little  accustomed  to  any  exhibition  of  emotion,  would 
have  sent  a  thrill  of  doubt  to  the  most  faithful  and 
trusting  heart. 

Norman  Lovel  was  standing  by  Elizabeth,  and  both 
gazed  from  one  to  the  other  with  a  sort  of  chilled  aston 
ishment,  which  left  them  no  power  to  break  the  painful 
spell  of  the  moment  as  observers  of  mature  years  and 
worldly  experience  would  have  been  able  to  do. 

Barbara  Stafford  sank  slowly  back  as  Sir  William  re 
pulsed  her  in  his  astonishment;  shrinking  into  herself  like 
a  flower  drooping  upon  its  stalk,  her  arms  falling  idly  to 


CON  VERSA  T1OJS      ON     THE      POKCH.       175 

her  side,  and  her  eyes  fastened  upon  his  face  with  a  mag 
netic  power  which  forced  him  to  return  her  glance,  in  spite 
of  his  strong  will. 

That  instant  of  bewilderment  had  seemed  like  an 
eternity  to  the  little  group.  Lady  Phipps  was  first  to 
break  the  spell.  Mastering  the  tremor  which  took  away 
her  strength,  she  stepped  towards  her  husband,  and  said, 
in  a  courteous,  but  somewhat  constrained  manner — 

"  I  believe  we  have  all  been  making  confusion  in  this 
darkness  ;  Sir  William  has  claimed  a  privilege  scarcely  his 
own,  and  my  eyes  were  so  blinded  by  the  gloom  that  I 
supposed  him  a  stranger." 

Those  jesting  words  in  a  measure  dispelled  the  painful 
embarrassment  of  the  moment. 

Sir  William  moved  towards  his  wife  with  the  grave 
dignity  which  characterized  him,  and  pressed  his  lips  to 
her  forehead. 

"  At  least  I  must  not  lose  my  greeting  now,"  he  said, 
"  and  our  fair  guest,  I  trust,  will  pardon  my  unintentional 
rudeness." 

Barbara  Stafford  did  not  reply,  and,  without  looking 
again  at  that  pale  face,  the  governor  passed  into  the  house, 
holding  his  wife's  hand  in  his  own.  When  they  had  dis 
appeared  from  view,  and  before  either  of  the  young  per 
sons,  who  were  looking  at  her  in  wonder,  could  move,  the 
wretched  lady  sank  back  without  a  sound,  or  even  a 
motion  of  her  arms  to  break  her  fall,  and  lay  prostrate 
tpon  the  porch,  her  loosened  hair  sweeping  the  garments 
of  Elizabeth  Parris  as  she  fell.  The  girl  shrunk  away,  as 
if  those  shining  tresses  had  been  viper  coils,  and  made 
no  movement  to  assist  her. 

"  She  is  dead  !"  exclaimed  Norman,  springing  forward 

to  raise  the  motionless  form  :  "  call  help.  Elizabeth." 
II 


176       CONVERSATION     ON    THE     PORCH. 

"  Don't  touch  her !"  expostulated  the  girl,  seizing  his 
arm  ;  "  I  would  rather  see  you  pick  up  a  snake — I  will 
call  the  domestics." 

"  For  shame,  Bess  !"  returned  Norman,  with  indigna 
tion  ;  "  how  can  you  be  so  cruel  ?" 

"You  shall  not  touch  her,  I  say  you  shall  not  1"  she  re 
peated,  with  unwonted  vehemence ;  "  I  cannot  bear  it, 
indeed  I  cannot." 

"  Get  me  some  water,  and  be  silent !"  he  said,  sternly, 
shaking  off  her  hand  and  raising  the  prostrate  form. 

Elizabeth  Parris  looked  on  for  a  moment  in  silence, 
while  he  swept  back  the  hair  from  that  white  face,  and 
threw  off  the  scarf  which  covered  her  head ;  then,  before 
he  could  repeat  his  request,  she  rushed  into  the  house, 
and  closed  the  door  violently  behind  her. 

Norman  uttered  an  exclamation  of  passionate  reproach, 
and  raised  Barbara  in  his  arms.  He  placed  her  on  i\ 
bench  at  the  end  of  the  porch,  where  the  roses  and  honey 
suckles  hung  down  in  luxuriant  profusion.  He  tore  off 
the  blossoms  with  reckless  haste,  and  scattered  the  dew 
over  her  forehead,  raising  her  head  upon  his  shoulder 
again  with  the  fondness  of  a  brother,  while  the  touch  of 
those  rich  masses  of  hair  sent  a  thrill  to  his  heart  almost 
painful  from  its  intensity. 

Many  moments  elapsed  ere  Barbara  Stafford  revived. 
She  opened  her  eyes  at  length,  and  looked  around  in  the 
starlit  gloom. 

"  Am  I  dreaming  ?"  she  whispered  ;  "  what  has  hap 
pened  ? — where  am  I  now  ?" 

"  You  fainted,  Madam,"  said  Norman,  soothingly ; 
"you  have  not  been  well  since  your  shipwreck,  I 
think." 

"  Fainted — did  I — and  wherefore  ?     Who  was  here  ?     I 


CONVERSATION     ON     THE    PORCH.       177 

feel  as  if  I  had  been  in  a  dream  —  that  man — surely 
I  was  in  his  arms  —  he  kissed  my  forehead  —  rny 
lips—" 

'•'  Sir  William  mistook  you  in  the  darkness  for  Lady 
Phipps,"  said  Norman,  in  explanation. 

"  I  remember,  and  they  looked  so  strangely  at  me — all 
of  them — that  young  girl — " 

"  You  must  excuse  Elizabeth,  Madam ;  she  is  a  mere 
child — capricious  and  spoiled." 

"  Where  are  they  all  ?  Why  did  they  leave  me  here 
alone  with  you  ?  Could  they  not  deign  me  even  a  mo 
ment's  pity  and  assistance  ?" 

"  Sir  William  and  Lady  Phipps  knew  nothing  of  your 
illness — they  had  gone  into  the  house — are  you  well 
enough  now  to  follow  them  ?" 

"  Not  yet — not  yet.  I  will  not  intrude  upon  them — I 
am  better  here." 

"  I  will  bring  you  some  water — " 

"  Nothing — only  let  me  be  quiet  for  a  few  moments,  and  I 
shall  be  well.  These  flowers  are  oppressive — help  me 
away." 

He  supported  her  to  a  seat  at  a  little  distance,  and  re 
sumed  his  position  by  her  side.  Barbara  sat  leaning  her 
forehead  upon  her  hand,  lost  in  thought,  and  shivering 
slightly,  as  if  with  cold. 

"  The  night  air  is  chill,"  said  Norman  ;  "  I  will  get  your 
cloak." 

He  took  up  the  rich  mantle  and  folded  it  about  her  ;. 
she  offered  no  resistance,  looking  down  at  him  as  he  bent 
forward,  and  smiling  with  her  patient,  resigned  smile,  in 
sign  of  thankfulness  for  his  care. 

"Are  you  better  now  ?"  he  asked,  inexpressibly  moved 
by  the  beautiful  resignation  of  her  look. 


178       CONVfiBSATION     ON     THE     PORCH. 

I 

"  Much  better.     You  are  very  kind  to  me — very  ,    I 

have  always  something  new  to  thank  you  for." 

"  I  wish  it  were  indeed  in  my  power  to  render  you  any 
service." 

"Ah,  you  are  young,  and  it  is  great  happiness  for  the 
young  to  feel  that  they  can  be  of  service  to  those  around 
them  !  But  I  have  no  claim  upon  your  kindness.  I  ara 
n  stranger  to  you  and  all  about  you." 

"  A  stranger — oh,  lady,  how  can  you  say  this  ?  I 
could  never  feel  that  you  were  indeed  a  stranger — there 
are  persons  with  whom  one,  at  the  first  sight,  seems  to 
have  been  acquainted  for  years — for  a  whole  life-time." 

"  Have  you  felt  that,  too  ?"  said  Barbara,  mournfully. 
"Poor  boy  !  that  feeling  conies  with  a  rare  and  peculiar 
organization,  which  causes  the  possessor  much  suffering." 

"And  am  I  to  know  much  suffering,  do  you  think?" 
the  youth  questioned  eagerly,  with  a  half-defiant  look,  as 
if  ready  to  dare  the  worst  that  fate  could  heap  upon  him. 
"  Shall  I  suffer,  do  you  think  ?" 

"  Is  it  not  the  fate  of  humanity  ?  Endurance  is  the 
great  lesson  of  life  !  But  it  is  very  hard  to  learn  how  to 
suffer  with  patience — the  pain  is  not  so  much  as  the 
struggle  for  resignation.  Oh,  that  is  hard  to  bear !" 

Barbara's  bead  drooped  forward  again,  and  a  mist  stole 
over  her  eyes,  till  they  shone  like  the  reflection  of  star- 
beams  through  dark  waters. 

"Endurance — I  don't  like  the  word  !  I  should  never 
.learn  to  be  patient,  never !"  exclaimed  Lovel,  with  his 
quick  impetuosity.  "  I  could  bear  any  suffering  that  came 
to  me,  but  I  would  not  be  resigned.  I  would  battle  with 
adversity  as  if  it  were  an  enemy  who  had  assailed  me  un 
awares." 

"  Poor  boy — poor  fleeting  spring  of  life  1"  murmured 


CONVERSATION     ON     THE     PORCH.        179 

Barbara.  "  No,  no — you  think  this  now,  while  the  elas» 
ticity  of  your  spirits  is  unimpaired,  but  that  will  not  cut- 
last  a  great  sorrow,  oue  which  crushes  out  all  hope  !  You 
must  learn  to  accept  life  as  it  is — press  the  crown  of 
thorns  courageously  down  upon  your  heart,  and  pray  to 
God  for  comfort  and  strength — in  His  good  time  and 
method  they  would  come  to  you." 

"  I  could  not  pray  if  I  were  wretched,"  returned  Lovel ; 
"  I  should  not  believe  that  God  heard  while  it  pleased 
Him  to  chastise  me." 

"That  is  not  the  language  of  this  Puritan  land, "said 
Barbara,  with  sorrowful  severity;  "the  teachings  of  your 
boyhood  should  have  prevented  the  birth  of  such  thoughts. 
Whence  come  they  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know — they  torment  me  much.  Often  in 
church  they  haunt  me,  drowning  the  voice  of  prayer  and 
thanksgiving." 

"  Pray  to  God  !"  said  Barbara  ;  "  He  alone  can  aid  you." 

"But  he  seems  so  far  off — I  cannot  feel  that  I  am 
heard  !  The  religion  that  our  ministers  teach  is  so  hard 
and  stern — so  unforgiving  and  unpitying.  Surely,  if  God 
be  a  just  and  perfect  being,  He  cannot  so  harshly  regard 
our  errors !" 

"  Ah,  child,  He  judges  not  as  man  does — He  sees  the 
motive,  and  oftentimes  pardons  that  which  poor,  weak 
mortals,  in  their  short-sightedness,  condemn  with  relent 
less  severity." 

"But  what  right  have  they  to  judge  others  thus,  those 
cold,  iron  preachers  ?  Piety  does  not  consist  in  smother 
ing  all  the  natural  and  beautiful  impulses  of  the  heart — " 

"These  impulses  are  the  soul's  best  religion,"  inter« 
rupted  Barbara,  gently. 

"  These  men  have  frozen  every  feeling  in  their  natures. 


180        CONVERSATION     ON     THE     PORCH. 

and  if  they  do  no  wrong  it  is  only  because  their  hearts  are 
so  icy  that  they  have  few  weaknesses  left.  There  is  little 
merit  iu  passive  goodness  when  no  temptation  to  error 
exists." 

"Are  you  not  falling  into  the  same  fault  tor  which  you 
blame  them  ?"  said  Barbara,  smiling  more  cheerfully. 

"  It  may  be."  replied  Lovel ;  "  but  I  lose  all  patience 
with  their  superstitious  observances.  My  heart  has  turned 
almost  with  loathing  from  their  creed  since  this  nightmare 
of  witchcraft  has  desolated  so  many  happy  hearths,  and 
murdered  so  many  innocent  creatures." 

"It  is  horrible,  indeed,"  said  Barbara,  with  a  shudder  ; 
"  I  have  read  strange  accounts,  but  they  seemed  too  terri 
ble  for  reality." 

"  Lady,  they  were  true — terribly  true  !  The  barbarity 
of  these  persecutions  is  beyond  the  power  of  words  t 

describe." 
• 

"  Can  human  beings  thus  be  led  astray  by  superstition 

fears  ?"  said  Barbara,  shuddering  anew  beneath  the  horro 
of  the  thought. 

"  I  saw  an  execution  once,"  continued  Lovel,  growinj 
pale  at  the  recollection,  "and  it  has  haunted  me  ever  since 
sleeping  and  waking.     Two  women  were  the  victims — on 
a  withered  old  crone,  and  the  other  a  girl,  as  young  and  fail- 
as  Elizabeth  Parris.     They  brought  them  out  of  the  jail, 
where  they  had  lain  for  weeks — out  before  that  hooting 
mob,  which  hailed  them  with  shouts  and  curses.     The  old 
woman,  bent  and  wrinkled,  cowered  and  shrieked,  but  she 
might  as  well  have  pleaded  for  mercy  from  a  herd  of  wild 
beasts.     She  struggled  and  writhed  when  they  bound  her 
hands,  but  what  was  her  feeble  strength  in  the  clutch  :»f 
those  infuriated  men  ?     The  girl  walked  out  alone — very 
pale,  but  calm   as  a  bride  on  her  way  to  the  altar.     A 


CONVERSATION    ON    THE    PORCH.       181 

Bible  was  in  her  hand.  Her  eyes  were  raised,  and  her 
smiling  lips  parted  in  fervent  prayer,  as  if  the  angels, 
whom  she  was  so  soon  to  join,  were  giving  her  strength 
in  that  terrible  hour.  They  cursed  her,  they  reviled  her 
— but  she  did  not  heed.  They  caught  hold  of  her  arm  to 
drag  her  on,  but  she  waved  them  aside  and  walked  for 
ward  to  the  gallows.  It  was  her  own  sister  who  had  ac 
cused  her  from  jealousy.  The  fiend  stood  by  and  watched 
the  consummation  of  her  work  !  They  tied  her  hands — 
the  noose  was  adjusted — the  word  given  ;  with  a  shriek 
the  old  woman  rushed  into  eternity.  Then  the  pure  spirit 
of  that  girl  followed,  her  lips  moving  in  prayer  to  the 
last." 

Lovel  broke  off,  and  passed  his  hands  before  his  eyes  to 
drive  away  the  fearful  images  which  his  description  ha  1 
aroused.  Barbara  had  fallen  back  upon  her  seat,  hiding 
her  face  in  her  hands,  shivering  with  horror  and  pain. 

"Terrible!  terrible!  God  pardon  them!"  she  gasped/ 
"  for  they  know  not  what  they  do  !" 

"  I  tell  you  he  will  curse  them  for  it — oh  yes,  I  do 
believe  there  is  an  eternity  of  suffering,  and  it  is  men  like 
those  who  must  endure  it.  There  stood  the  ministers  and 
the  judges  in  solemn  array  looking  on — the  selectmen  of 
the  church  and  town — and  enormities  like  these  they  call 
religion — " 

"No  more,  say  no  more  !"  pleaded  Barbara.  "I  feel 
it  all — I  cannot  breathe — I  seem  to  have  the  hangman's 
cord  on  my  throat — his  rough  grasp  on  my  arm — do  not 
speak  of  it  again." 

She  was  writhing  with  strange  anguish — it  seemed  to 
her  as  if  his  words  had  been  a  premonition  of  doom  I 

"  I  must  go  and  walk  in  the  garden,"  she  said,  arising; 
"this  has  driven  me  wild." 


182  WILD     JEALOUSY. 

She  passed  down  the  steps,  and  the  young  man  turned 
to  follow  ;  but  at  that  moment,  through  the  oaken  door, 
came  an  imperious  summons,  twice  repeated — 

"  Norman  Lovel !  Norman  Lovel !" 

It  was  the  governor's  voice,  in  a  tone  of  command 
that  he  never  used  unless  greatly  excited.  Norman  ut 
tered  an  apology,  which  Barbara  did  not  heed,  and 
rushed  into  the  hall. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

WILD   JKALOUSY. 

WHEN  she  entered  the  house  so  abruptly,  Elizabeth 
Parris  went  to  her  chamber,  and  sitting  down  upon  her 
bed,  remained  there  in  the  gloom,  brooding  over  the 
passion  and  sorrow  to  which  the  scene  below  had  given 
rise.  She  wept  bitterly  with  mingled  anger  and  grief, 
striking  her  hands  down  upon  the  counterpane,  and  sob 
bing  aloud  in  unwonted  excitement. 

She  believed  that  Barbara  Stafford  bad  lured  her  young 
lover  from  his  allegiance,  and  that  she  was  left  to  stand 
quietly  by  and  see  this  stranger  woman  usurp  and  claim 
the  affection  which,  almost  up  to  that  hour,  she  had 
deemed  wholly  her  own. 

There  she  sat  while  the  moments  crept  on,  seeming  to 
her  like  hours.  At  intervals,  through  the  open  casements, 
came  the  murmur  of  voices  from  the  porch,  mingling  at 
times  with  the  deeper  tones  of  Sir  William  Phipps,  from 
where  he  sat  in  earnest  conversation  with  his  wife  in  the 
apartment  below. 


WILD     JEALOUSY.  183 

At  length  Elizabeth  rose  and  approached  the  window, 
flung  back  the  muslin  draperies  with  an  impatient  move 
ment,  and  looked  out  into  the  night.  Those  two  forma 
were  dimly  perceptible,  seated  side  by  side  on  the  carved 
seat,  and  a  pang  of  jealousy,  more  acute  than  she  had  yet 
felt,  wrung  her  girlish  heart.  She  leaned  over  the  sill, 
striving  to  catch  those  low  tones,  then,  startled  by  the 
meanness  of  which  she  had  not  believed  herself  capable, 
drew  back,  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room, 
weeping  with  quick,  convulsive  sobs,  which  seemed  suffo 
cating  her. 

Still  the  murmur  of  those  voices  was  borne  up  to  her 
tortured  ear,  rising  and  falling  unequally  as  if  the  subject 
of  conversation  were  of  deep  interest.  This  was  only  au 
added  pain  to  the  poor  girl,  who  kept  that  gloomy  vigil 
with  such  unquiet  thoughts  for  her  companions. 

At  last  the  suspense  and  wretchedness  became  too 
great  for  her  young  heart  to  bear.  With  it  all,  there 
started  up  in  her  mind  the  wilful  pride  and  determination 
of  a  petted  child  accustomed  to  being  treated  as  the  idol 
of  all  about  her. 

"  She  has  stolen  him  from  me — bad,  designing  woman  !" 
she  exclaimed.  "But  this  shall  not  last — she  shall  not 
stay  here — I  will  not  be  braved  by  her  and  set  aside  that 
she  may  be  worshipped  !  She  shall  see,  and  Norman 
Lovel,  too ;  they  are  laughing  at  me,  I  dare  say,  at  this 
very  moment — but  they  shall  not  laugh  long," 

She  approached  the  window  once  more  and  looked  out. 
Barbara  and  Norman  Lovel  stood  side  by  side,  as  before  ; 
her  hand  rested  on  his  arm,  he  was  looking  into  her  face. 
Elizabeth  could  not  clearly  distinguish  his  features,  but 
her  jealous  fancy  required  no  aid  to  help  her  paint  that 
glance.  Her  own  eyes  had  drooped  so  often  beneath  its 


184  WILD     JEALOUSY. 

passionate  fervor,  her  girlish  heart,  ever  tremulous,  had 
responded  so  fully  to  the  tones  of  that  thrilling  voice — 
yes,  she  could  imagine  it  all  1 

She  flung  down  the  draperies  again,  and,  forcing  back 
the  tears  which  had  fairly  pained  her  cheeks  as  they 
poured  over  them,  she  left  the  chamber  and  hurried 
down-stairs  to  put  in  force  a  resolve  formed  during  her 
unquiet  vigil. 

When  Sir  William  Phipps  conducted  his  wife  into  the 
house,  at  the  conclusion  of  that  embarrassing  scene,  they 
passed  through  the  long  passage  and  entered  an  apart 
ment  which  the  governor  occupied  as  his  study. 

"I  was  hardly  expecting  your  arrival  to-night,"  Lady 
Phipps  said,  as  he  placed  a  chair  and  sat  down  near  her. 

"I  made  all  haste,  for  I  was  anxious  to  return — " 

"  Be  careful  how  you  arrive  again  in  the  dark,"  she 
said,  interrupting  him  in  a  playful  tone,  through  which 
some  faint  annoyance  that  her  husband's  mistake  had  oc 
casioned  might  have  been  detected. 

"  I  regret  that,"  replied  Sir  William,  gravely ;  "  but 
supposing  the  lady  could  be  no  other  than  my  own  fair 
wife,  I  did  not  hesitate  to  greet  her." 

"  Let  us  say  no  more  about  it — we  will  leave  the  lady 
to  herself  for  a  little,  when  she  will  have  recovered  from 
her  agitation." 

"  Is  she  your  friend  from  the  farm  house  ?" 

"  Yes — it  is  Mistress  Barbara  Stafford  ;  you  remember 
the  name,  and  the  shipwreck."-.  f 

"  I  remember ;  and  you  have  persuaded  her  to  become 
our  guest  at  last  ?" 

"  I  have.  You  do  not  disapprove  ?  I  thought  you  de 
sired  it." 

"  Whatever  you  do,  fair  lady,  must  be  well  done — any 


WILD     JEALOUSY.  185 

arrangement  that  affords  you  pleasure  always  meets  with 
my  approval." 

Lady  Pbipps  made  some  laughing  remark  concerning 
his  habitual  courtesy,  but  Sir  William  scarcely  heard  her 
words.  He  had  fallen  into  deep  thought,  so  vague  and 
singular  that  he  was  himself  at  a  loss  to  trace  its  source. 
He  remembered  how  the  presence  of  that  woman  had 
affected  him  during  the  holy  services  of  the  church, 
causing  his  hand  to  tremble  when  he  raised  the  sacra 
mental  wine  to  his  lips,  and  rousing  emotions  which 
carried  his  mind  far  from  the  solemn  interest  of  the  occa 
sion.  Then  again  that  very  night — the  touch  of  that 
head  seemed  yet  upon  his  heart — the  trace  of  the  kiss  he 
had  pressed  upon  her  mouth  lingered  still  upon  his  lips, 
even  the  pure  embrace  of  his  wife  had  failed  to  obliterate 
it — the  entrancing  magic  of  those  eyes  followed  him  and 
burned  into  his  very  soul,  starting  up  like  some  Circean 
enchantment  even  between  himself  and  the  faithful  woman 
by  his  side. 

With  a  strong  effort  he  banished  those  wild  reflections, 
and  roused  himself  to  return  an  answer  to  the  idle  ques 
tion  his  wife  had  asked,  appearing  calm  and  unconcerned. 

"  And  you  are  pleased  with  the  lady?"  he  said,  quietly. 

"She  is  charming,"  returned  Lady  Phipps;  "her 
manner  is  perfect,  she  is  a  woman  of  great  natural  gifts, 
heightened  by  cultivation.  There  is  an  irresistible  grace 
in  her  slightest  word  and  movement,  an  inexplicable 
charm  in  every  smile  and  glance,  yet — " 

"Well, "said  Sir  William,  asshe  paused,  "go  on,andyet?" 

"  I  cannot  tell !  I  feel  drawn  toward  her  by  some  un 
accountable  spell  ;  it  is  as  if  she  attracted  me  at  will, 
biased  my  thoughts  by  her  judgment,  and  held  me,  during 
our  conversations,  completely  under  her  sway." 


186  WILD     JEALOUSY. 

"  She  might  easily  be  a  very  dangerous  companion, 
were  this  not  a  mere  fancy." 

"  It  is  no  fancy,  Sir  William — you  will  yourself  remark 
it.  There  is  little  Bessie,  who  dislikes  her  extremely,  and 
yet,  at  Mistress  Stafford's  bidding,  she  will  sit  down  at  her 
feet  and  listen  for  hours  to  her  conversation,  like  one  en 
tranced." 

"  Is  not  this  hypocrisy  in  our  little  Bess  ?" 

"No — oh,  no.  The  child  is  truth  and  sincerity  itself  I 
I  have  seen  her  strive  to  resist  the  spell,  hovering  rest 
lessly  about  like  a  half-charmed  bird  ;  but  Mistress  Stafford 
would  follow  her  continually  with  those  wonderful  eyes, 
and  in  the  end,  by  her  power,  whatever  it  may  be,  she  is 
certain  to  conquer." 

"  But  why  does  Elizabeth  Parris  dislike  her  ?" 

"  The  girl  is  jealous ;  Norman-  Level,  she  tells  me,  has 
neglected  her  of  late ;  she  complains  that  this  stranger 
lures  him  away,  and  fears  that  she  will  in  the  end  wholly 
alienate  his  affection." 

"And  is  this  true,  or  but  the  suspicion  of  a  foolish 
girl  ?" 

"  I  cannot  tell :  certain  it  is  that  since  Mistress  Staf 
ford's  arrival  here  Norman  has  been  thrown  much  in  her 
society,  but  I  cannot  believe  that  she  would  exercise  any 
undue  influence  over  him,  or  seek  to  create  a  coldness  be 
tween  those  two  young  hearts  whose  mutual  affection  has 
been  so  beautiful  to  look  upon." 

Sir  William  was  silent  again  for  a  moment ;  his  wife's 
description  of  the  influence  which  the  stranger  exerted 
over  them  all  accorded  so  entirely  with  the  impression  she 
had  created  upon  his  own  feelings,  that  he  was  startled 
and  perplexed. 

"  And  what  account  does  she  give  of  herself — who  ia 


WILD     JKALOUSY.  187 

she,  and  what  has  brought  her  here  to  this  new  world, 
alone  and  unprotected  ?" 

"  She  speaks  vaguely  of  her  past  or  of  her  future  plans. 
She  told  me  that  she  might  perhaps  soon  return  to 
England ;  then,  as  we  were  talking,  she  fainted  suddenly 
awav,  and  fell  senseless  in  my  anus,  just  as  she  had  done 
during  my  visit  to  her  at  Goody  Brown's." 

"  It  is  very  strange,"  said  Sir  William.  "  These  are 
wayward  times  in  which  we  live,  and  it  behoves  us  all 
to  be  well  upon  our  guard  ;  we  know  not  in  what  way  the 
great  adversary  of  souls  may  weave  his  snares  for  us." 

"  It  grieves  me  to  think  ill  of  her,  my  husband,  and  yet, 
when  out  of  her  sight,  evil  forebodings  rise  in  my  mind, 
which  the  first  glance  of  her  eyes  is  sure  to  dispel.  To 
night  her  manner  was  so  wayward — another  would  have 
explained — would  have  called  out — no  word,  no  sign. 
She  neither  moved  nor  seemed  to  note  the  presence  of  any 
human  being." 

"  I  must  converse  with  this  stranger ;  after  receiving 
her  as  our  friend  and  guest,  it  is  meet  that  we  should 
know  somewhat  more  concerning  her." 

"  She  will  set  every  doubt  at  rest  in  your  mind,  of  that 
I  am  certain.  I  know  not  what  to  advise,  but  I  am 
glad  that  you  are  returned,  for  I  was  sorely  puzzled  how 
to  act." 

"  Where  are  our  friends  ?  I  fear  we  left  them  somewhat 
unceremoniously." 

"  Let  us  go  back  to  them,"  returned  Lady  Phipps.  "  I 
believe,  in  truth,  we  should  offer  some  apology  for  our 
abrupt  departure." 


188         PASSIONATE     DENUNCIATIONS. 


CHAPTER    XXL 

PASSIONATE   DENUNCIATIONS. 

"WHEN  Governor  Phipps  and  his  wife  entered  the 
library  they  found  Samuel  Parris  standing  in  the  midst  of 
the  room,  waiting,  with  suppressed  impatience,  for  the 
appearance  of  his  daughter.  He  strode  forward  a  pace 
or  two,  with  eager  fire  in  his  eyes,  when  Lady  Phipps 
crossed  the  threshold  ;  but  seeing  that  the  form  be  so 
longed  for  did  not  follow,  drew  back  with  nervous  shy 
ness,  shrinking  within  himself  as  if  the  impulsive  affection 
warming  his  heart  were  a  sin  to  hide  away  and  be 
ashamed  of. 

"  Mr.  Parris,  welcome  back  again,"  said  Lady  Phipps, 
holding  out  her  plump  little  hand.  "  We  have  been  rude 
to  keep  you  In  solitude  so  long." 

"  Nay,  my  lady,  it  matters  not.  But  the  child — my 
Elizabeth — surely  nothing  is  amiss  that  she  delays  coming 
to  greet  her  father  ?" 

Lady  Phipps  became  thoughtful  in  an  instant,  and 
looked  around,  wondering  where  Elizabeth  had  bestowed 
herself. 

The  old  man  grew  white  and  began  to  shiver. 

"  Is  the  child  ill  ?  What  malady  has  found  her  out  ? 
You  may  tell  me,  lady,  without  fear;  with  God's  help  I — 
I  can  bear  it.'' 

The  poor,  self-tortured  old  man  sat  down  on  the  edge 
of  a  chair  and  lifted  his  large,  wild  eyes  to  the  lady's  face, 
waiting  for  the  expected  blow  with  piteous  trepidation. 


PASSIONATE     DENUNCIATIONS.         189 

Lady  Phipps  drew  close  to  him,  with  both  hands  ex 
tended,  and  a  world  of  gentle  sympathy  beaming  in  her 
face. 

"  My  friend,  my  dear,  good  friend,  there  is  nothing 
wrong  ;  Elizabeth  is  well." 

"  Thank  God,"  broke  from  the  old  man,  while  his 
clasped  hands  unlocked  themselves  and  fell  gently  down 
ward. 

"  I  was  only  wondering  where  she  had  hid  herself," 
continued  the  lady.  "  Surely,  when  her  father  was  wait 
ing,  she  should  have  been  here." 

"  Nay,  I  can  tarry  for  the  child  without  weariness,  so 
that  she  is  but  well,"  answered  the  old  man,  heaving  a 
deep  sigh  of  relief.  "  Nevertheless,  if  she  is  near  at 
hand—" 

"  I  will  inquire,  I  will  inquire,"  said  the  lady,  turning 
to  leave  the  apartment,  but  at  that  moment  the  door  was 
thrown  hurriedly  open,  and  Elizabeth  Parris  advanced 
toward  them,  her  face  pale,  her  eyes  red  and  swollen 
with  weeping. 

"Why  Bessie,  child,  what  is  this?"  exclaimed  Lady 
Phipps,  "  are  you  ill  ?" 

Samuel  Parris  arose  to  his  feet,  holding  out  both  arms 
with  more  passionate  affection  than  had  ever  broken  the 
iron  bands  of  his  reason  before. 

"Elizabeth  !  Elizabeth  !" 

The  young  girl  flung  herself  into  those  outstretched 
arms,  and  clung  to  her  father's  neck,  sobbing  violentlv. 

"  Oh,  father  1  father  !  take  me  home  !  take  me  tiome  ! 
I  am  wretched  here — oh,  so  wretched  !" 

The  old  man  smoothed  her  hair  with  his  hand,  and 
kissed  her  hot  forehead  with  more  than  feminine  ten 
derness. 


190         PASS  ION  A  TK     DENUNCIATIONS. 

"  Hush  thee — hush  thee,  ray  child,"  he  murmured. 
Then,  turning  his  face  to  Lady  Phipps,  he  added  : 

"  Forgive  her,  lady,  she  is  but  a  child." 

"  She  is  ill,  I  fear,"  answered  the  governor,  looking  at 
his  wife.  The  lady  shook  her  head  and  smiled.  Eliza 
beth  lifted  her  face  from  the  minister's  bosom,  and  tossed 
the  golden  hair  away  from  it  in  childish  defiance. 

"No,  no,  I  am  not  ill,"  she  sobbed,  "but  I  can  bear 
this  no  longer:  send  me  away — let  me  go  back  to  my 
father's  house — I  will  not  remain  under  the  same  roof 
with  her." 

"  With  whom  ?"  asked  Sir  William  ;  "  what  means  this 
agitation,  little  one  ?" 

"With  this  Mistress  Stafford  ;  I  will  not  live  another  day 
in  the  same  house  with  her — I  believe  that  she  is  a  witch." 

Samuel  Parris  suddenly  unclasped  the  wild  girl  from 
his  embrace,  and  held  her  at  arm's  length,  with  horror  in 
his  face.  The  other  listeners  started  at  her  passionate 
utterance  of  a  word  which  had  already  grown  so  terrible 
throughout  New  England.  Sir  William  spoke  first;  but 
even  his  usually  firm  voice  was  husky. 

"What  has  she  done,  my  daughter,  that  you  should 
speak  thus  ?" 

"  She  has  made  me  wretched  ;  nobody  loves  me,  nobody 
cares  for  me  now,  and  it  is  all  her  work  !" 

"  Shame,  child,  shame  !"  expostulated  Lady  Phipps. 

"  Where  is  Mistress  Stafford  now  ?" 

"  Where  ?"  exclaimed  Elizabeth,  with  increased  vio 
lence;  "go  into  the  garden,  and  you  will  find  her  seated 
by  Master  Norman,  looking  into  his  face  with  her  wicked 
eyes,  and  charming  him  with  her  serpent  tongue." 

"  Is  this  true  ?"  cried  Sir  William  ;  "girl,  is  this  true  ? 
Whv  did  vou  leave  them  ?" 


PASSIONATE      DENUNCIATIONS.         191 

"  She  fainted  after  you  came  in,  and  he  blamed  me 
harshly ;  then  I  left  them — it  is  a  full  half  hour  since,  and 
they  are  together  still." 

The  girl  threw  herself  out  of  her  father's  arms  and 
clung  to  Lady  Phipps,  with  a  new  burst  of  weeping  that 
her  friend  strove  in  vain  to  check.  Sir  William  strode 
into  the  passage,  and  called  in  a  voice  which  penetrated 
like  a  trumpet  through  the  whole  mansion — 

"  Norman  Lovel !  Norman  Lovel !" 

The  youth  heard  the  summons  as  he  was  following 
Barbara  Stafford  down  the  steps,  and  startled  by  its  stern 
ness  hastened  into  the  house.  The  governor  met  him  in 
the  hall,  and  seizing  his  hand  drew  him  into  the  apart 
ment  where  the  weeping  Elizabeth  still  clung  to  Lady 
Phipps. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?"  he  said,  sternly ; 
"  what  have  you  done  to  this  poor  child,  Norman  Lovel  ?" 

"  Nothing,  sir ;  I  have  not  seen  her  for  some  time. 
Mistress  Stafford  fainted,  Elizabeth  came  in  for  some 
water,  and  did  not  return." 

"  How  long  ago  was  that  ?" 

"  Fifteen  minutes,  mayhap." 

"  You  see,"  whispered  Lady  Phipps ;  "  he  has  lost  all 
note  of  time.  William,  it  frightens  me — what  can  be 
done  ?" 

"Are  you  angered  with  this  maiden,  Norman  ?"  pur 
sued  Sir  William. 

"Angered — with  Bessie  ?"  repeated  the  young  man  ; 
"  how  can  you  think  it  ?  She  knows  that  I  am  not." 

He  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips  with  earnest 
affection  ;  Lady  Phipps  gontly  unlocked  the  young  girl's 
arm  from  her  neck,  placed  both  hands  in  Norman's,  and 

left  the  startled  pair  standing  side  bv  side,  in  front  of  the 
12 


192        PASSIONATE     DENUNCIATIONS. 

old  man,  who  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  scene  lost  in 
astonishment. 

A  gleam  of  joy  came  back  to  Elizabeth's  face,  and  she 
stood  half  terrified,  half  abashed,  like  a  fawn  ready  to  flee 
at  the  slightest  sound.  She  cast  one  shy  glance  at  her 
father  from  under  the  silken  lashes  that  instantly  drooped 
to  her  hot  cheeks,  and  then  drew  away  from  her  lover, 
ashamed  of  her  own  exquisite  happiness. 

"  Let  no  new  trouble  come  between  your  hearts,"  said 
Sir  William,  solemnly.  Then  turning  to  Samuel  Parris, 
he  added  with  deep  feeling — 

"  My  dear  old  friend,  these  two  persons  love  each  other 
deeply,  truly,  I  think ;  as  you  and  I  have  loved  before 
this.  Need  I  ask  you  to  bless  an  attachment  which  has 
every  promise  of  happiness  ?" 

"  But  she  is  a  child.  My  Elizabeth  is  a  babe  as  yet. 
It  was  but  yesterday  that  she  sat  on  my  knee  learning  her 
alphabet.  Why  talk  of  love  between  any  one  and  a 
young  creature  like  that  ?  It  is  sacrilege  ;  cruel,  cruel. 
I  have  not  deserved  this  at  your  hands,  William  Pbipps  I" 

"  Nay,"  answered  the  governor,  deeply  moved,  but  firm 
in  his  own  idea;  "her  mother  was  but  one  little  year 
older  than  Elizabeth  when  she  became  your  wife." 

"  What !  what  1"  cried  the  old  man,  looking  upon  his 
child  with  a  sort  of  terror.  "  Has  the  babe  advanced  so 
close  upon  her  womanhood  ?  She  loves  another,  and  the 
old  man  will  be  left  alone.  God  help  us  all,  for  this  is  a 
heavy  blow." 

"  Nay,  my  friend,"  urged  the  governor.  "  The  young 
man  is  well  worthy  of  any  maiden's  love.  Be  content 
that  I  regard  him  almost  as  my  own  son.  It  is  but  gain 
ing  another  child,  Samuel  Parris  ;  a  son  who  will  support 
the  declining  years  of  your  life  with  his  strong  arm." 


PASSIONATE     DENUNCIATIONS.        193 

Parris  cast  a  long,  half-reluctant  look  at  the  young 
man,  who  met  his  scrutiny  with  a  frank,  honest  return, 
that  half  drove  the  look  of  dismay  from  that  anxious  old 
face. 

"Oh,  father,  are  you  angry  with  us  ?"  pleaded  Eliz 
abeth,  creeping  to  the  minister's  side. 

"Angry  1  and  with  thee,  Elizabeth  ?" 

"  Nor  with  him  ?  Oh,  father,  if  you  are  angry  with 
him  it  will  break  my  heart !" 

"Break  thy  heart,  child!  What!  another?  No,  no; 
I  have  seen  hearts  break  before  now,  and  it  was  I  that 
did  it — I,  a  minister  of  God's  merciful  religion.  Love 
the  young  man,  girl ;  love  him  heart  and  soul.  I  will 
make  no  protest — give  no  sign." 

Elizabeth,  smiling  through  the  vague  terror  produced 
by  the  old  man's  emotion,  drew  back  to  LovePs  side. 
Parris  looked  at  them  with  a  strange,  bewildered  air. 

"  They  are  waiting  for  something,"  he  said,  looking  wist 
fully  at  Sir  William.  "  Is  it  the  old  man's  blessing  ?  I 
must  not  withhold  it,  you  say.  They  are  young  and  fair, 
and  love  each  other  dearly.  Ah,  me  !  what  anguish  may 
lie  buried  in  that  word  love  !  Yes,  I  will  bless  them. 
God  helping  me,  I  will  bless  them.  Kneel  down,  young 
man — kneel,  Elizabeth.  When  human  hearts  are  conse 
crated  to  each  other,  it  is  a  sacrament  of  which  marriage 
is  but  the  seal.  Norman  Lovel,  take  her  hand — and  God 
so  deal  with  you  as  you  deal  with  my  child — Elizabeth — " 
Here  the  old  man's  voice  filled  with  tears.  He  struggled 
a  moment,  fell  upon  his  knees  before  the  young  couple, 
bowed  his  head  earthward,  and  covering  his  face  with 
both  hands  cried  like  a  child. 

Sir  William  Phippa  went  up  to  the  minister,  and  bent 


194:        PASSIONATE     DENUNCIATIONS. 

over  him,  whispering  words  in  his  ear  which  no  one  else 
heard.  After  a  little,  Parris  arose  from  his  knees,  laid 
two  trembling  hands  on  those  young  heads,  and  spoke  to 
them  with  such  gentle  and  loving  pathos  that  even  Lady 
Phipps  wept.  There  was  silence  in  the  room  for  some 
moments  after  the  young  people  arose  to  their  feet.  That 
solemn  benediction  had  impressed  all  present  too  pro 
foundly  for  the  prompt  reaction  which  is  possible  to 
lighter  feelings.  But,  after  a  little,  Lady  Phipps  spoke, 
smiling  through  the  tears  that  still  lingered  pleasantly  in 
her  eyes.  "  Now,  Elizabeth,  I  fancy  you  will  be  able  to 
meet  our  guest  with  some  placidity,"  she  said,  kissing  the 
now  pale  cheek  of  the  almost  bride.  "Oh,  that  little, 
jealous  heart,  it  beats  to  another  tune  now.  Sweet  one, 
God's  blessing  be  with  you,  and  make  you  happy  as  I 
am."  With  the  quick  impulse  of  a  warm-hearted  woman 
the  lady  began  to  sob  again.  It  was  but  the  dying  out 
of  an  excitement  which  best  exhausted  itself  in  such  April 
weeping  as  a  heart  unknown  to  sorrow  loves  to  indulge 
in.  But  Sir  William  always  linked  tears  with  grief.  As 
he  heard  the  tender  sobs  rising  in  her  bosom,  he  reached 
out  his  arm  and  drew  her  close  to  him,  soothing  her  with 
caresses. 

While  they  stood  thus,  a  white  face  appeared  at  the 
window  which  opejaed  into  the  garden,  and,  unregarded,  a 
pair  of  wild  eyes  followed  each  movement  of  the  featured 
so  touchingly  grouped  together. 

Wandering  like  an  unquiet- spirit  through  the  garden, 
Barbara  Stafford  had  fallen  suddenly  upon  the  scene. 
She  saw  it  all :  the  young  people  upon  their  knees ;  the 
old  man  drooping  before  them ;  and  Sir  William  Phipps 
stooping  down  to  caress  his  wife. 


THE     DEATH     FIBE.  195 

She  drew  the  scarf,  which  was  trailing  to  the  ground, 
closely  around  her,  and  fleeing  through  the  garden  walks 
like  one  in  fear  of  pursuit,  disappeared  in  the  darkness  of 
the  street  beyond. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE     DEATH     FIRE. 

THE  house  of  Samuel  Parris,  the  minister  of  the  church 
of  Salem,  stood  in  a  solitary  place,  a  little  out  of  the  vil 
lage,  which  lay  between  it  and  the  sea,  whose  interminable 
beat  could  be  heard  throbbing  like  a  pulse  along  the 
beach. 

When  every  thing  was  still,  and  the  hum  of  insects 
asleep  in  the  forest,  which,  boundless  as  the  blue  ocean, 
stretched  in  an  opposite  direction,  dark  and  teeming  with 
mysterious  shadows,  the  repose  was  almost  appalling. 
Then,  especially,  the  sweep  of  these  waves,  coming  with 
distinctness  to  the  minister's  house,  and  blending  with  the 
shiver  of  the  forest  leaves,  and  the  cry  of  such  birds  as 
sing  to  the  darkness,  rendered  the  night-time  one  of  pecu 
liar  mournfulness  in  that  out-^f-the-way  dwelling. 

But  the  young  girl  who  sat  in  the  little  family-room, 
late  one  quiet  evening,  had  learned  to  love  the  dark  hours, 
and  so  listened  to  the  mighty  and  interminable  throb  of 
those  waves  with  strange  sympathy.  The  dull  tick  of  an 
old  oak  clock,  whose  coffin-like  frame  was  heavy  with 
carvings,  seemed  answering  the  eternal  anthem  with  its 


196  THE     DEATH     FIRE. 

'  if 
small  noise,  like  a  human  voice  striving  to  answei   the 

hymns  of  universal  nature  ;  and  the  petty  sound  irritated 
.her  nerves,  while  the  everlasting  sweep,  afar  off,  made  her 
heart  swell  and  her  eye  kindle. 

As  Abigail  Williams  sat  thus  restlessly  listening,  Tituba, 
the  old  Indian  woman,  came  into  the  room,  and  sat  down 
on  the  floor  at  her  feet.  The  woman  did  not  speak,  but 
lifted  her  face,  wrinkled  like  a  dried  plum,  to  that  of  the 
young  girl,  and  waited  to  be  addressed.  The  large,  ear 
nest  eyes  of  Abby  Williams  looked  down  upon  the  Indian. 

"  It  is  late,  Tituba,"  she  said,  "  the  clock  has  struck 
eleven,  and  no  sign  of  his  coming  1" 

"  He  will  be  here — Wahpee  would  have  been  home 
long  ago,  if  any  thing  had  kept  the  young  chief  away. 
Are  you  sleepy,  Abigail  ?" 

"  Sleepy  !  no.  I  shall  never  be  sleepy  again.  The 
knowledge  of  who  I  am,  and  what  they  are  in  whose 
bosom  I  have  slept  all  my  life,  keeps  rest  away  from  me 
— I  know  well  how  Judas  felt  when  he  sold  his  Lord." 

Tituba  shook  her  head.  She  had  no  Bible,  and  could 
not  be  made  to  comprehend  what  one  meant,  though  she 
had  lived  with  the  minister  at  Salem  since  Abigail  was  an 
infant.  Hers  was  a  wilder  and  more  romantic  religion — 
the  Manitou  of  the  Indians  was  her  God,  and  she  read  his 
word  in  the  leaves  of  the  forest  and  the  rush  of  the  moun 
tain  stream.  With  her,  treachery  to  the  whites  was  faith 
to  the  Indian.  Had  Juda^betrayed  his  enemy,  she  would 
have  considered  him  a  hero :  but  to  betray  his  Master — • 
old  Tituba  could  not  have  understood  that  I 

"  You  look  like  her  now,"  whispered  the  woman,  folding 
her  hands  over  her  knees,  and  rocking  back  and  forth  on 
the  floor,  as  she  always  did  when  about  to  talk  of  the  past. 

"  My  mother — do  I  look  like  her  ?"  said  Abigail. 


THE     DEATH     FIRE.  197 

"  About  the  eyes,  when  there  is  trouble  ill  them  ;  but 
hers  were  blue,  like  a  periwinkle  in  the  morning,  while 
yours  are  darker,  and  change  so." 

"  And  her — that  other  woman — that  grand,  sweet- 
spoken  woman,  whose  spirit  will  not  rest — Anna  Hutch- 
inson — my  grandmother  ?  Have  you  seen  her,  Tituba  ?" 

"  Yes,  when  the  warriors  brought  her  into  the  forest  for 
sacrifice.  I  was  there.  I  watched  the  women,  while 
they  gathered  pitch  pine-knots,  and  scattered  turpentine 
over  the  wood  which  the  braves  heaped  on  her  death 
fire  1" 

"Did  they  torture  her?" 

"  No.  The  wood  was  piled  high  ;  the  Pequod  women 
had  brought  heaps  of  pitch  pine  ;  the  warriors,  who  held 
her  and  her  little  ones,  came  forward,  ready  to  throw  them 
on  the  flames  together ;  they  only  waited  for  the  chief!" 

"  And  she  stood  ready  for  this  terrible  death  ?"  broke 
in  Abigail.  "  Was  she  brave,  or  was  it  only  in  speech 
that  she  proved  valiant  ?" 

"  Brave  !  The  warriors  grew  proud  of  their  victim,  she 
looked  death  so  grandly  in  the  face.  The  chief  came,  and 
his  eye  flamed  brightly  when  he  saw  her.  She  was 
worthy  of  the  death  fire  kindled  in  his  honor." 

"  And  he,  a  king,  stood  by  and  saw  this  brave  woman 
tortured  ?" 

"Why,  would  you  have  them  offer  a  meaner  victim  be 
fore  the  sachem  ?" 

"  It  was  a  fearful  cruelty,"  said  Abigail,  shuddering. 

"  She  was  brave  for  herself,  but  not  for  her  children," 
continued  Tituba.  "When  her  little  ones  clung  around 
her,  holding  to  her  garments,  pale  and  terror-struck,  she 
flung  up  her  arms,  and  called  aloud  for  some  one  to  take 
them  away  and  save  them  from  torture.  She  asked  the 


198  THE     D  li  A  T  H      FIRE. 

warriors  to  think  of  all  their  powers,  and  heap  the  pain 
on  her  ;  she  would  bear  every  thing  ;  they  might  be  days 
killing  her  ;  only  take  her  children  away,  and  keep  them 
out  of  sight  and  hearing,  while  she  died  !" 

"  And  did  no  one  take  compassion  on  her — even  those 
fiends  incarnate  ?" 

"  The  same  blood  that  burned  in  their  veins  beats  in 
yours,"  answered  the  Indian  woman,  severely.  "  Who 
took  compassion  on  her,  when  she  was  tied  to  a  cart  and 
whipped  by  constables  from  village  to  village,  like  a 
vicious  hound  ?  Ask  yourself  if  the  death  fire  was  not 
mercy  compared  to  that !  The  warriors  knew  how  to  re 
spect  her  courage  ;  but  her  own  people  mocked  her  shame 
while  they  tortured  her." 

"  Both  were  horrible.  But  her  little  children  ?  My 
mother  was  one  of  those  helpless  creatures  !" 

"  There  was  a  law  in  our  tribe,  maiden,  by  which  a 
bereaved  mother  might  adopt  a  captive,  if  she  wished,  in 
place  of  the  child  she  had  buried.  By  the  side  of  the 
sachem  stood  a  woman,  who  had  lost  a  child,  bright  as  the 
May  blossom  ;  and  her  heart  was  heavy  with  grief  when 
she  saw  a  little  girl,  with  hair  like  sunbeams,  clinging 
to  that  wretched  woman,  with  its  eyes,  large  like  those  of 
a  young  fawn,  turned  ou  the  fire.  Maiden,  Manitou 
sometimes  sends  the  soul  of  a  dead  child  home  again  in 
another  form,  when  its  mother's  heart  is  breaking.  The 
woman  knew  that  her  child  had  wandered  back  from  the 
great  hunting-ground,  with  its-hair  turned  golden,  and  its 
«-yes  blue  like  the  sky  in  summer.  So  she  went  to  the 
chief  with  many  words,  and  asked  for  her  child.  The  same 
mother  bore  the  Pequod  sachem  and  the  woman  who 
claimed  the  little  girl,  so  he  gave  her  leave  to  take,  not 
«H»ly  the  golden -haired  child,  but  both  Anna  Hutchinson'» 


T  H  E      DEATH      FIRE.  199 

children  ;  for  the  other  was  a  brave  girl,  who  stood  be 
tween  her  little  sister  and  the  flames,  till  her  hands  and 
clothes  were  scorched  by  them." 

"  And  the  Indian  woman  took  them  both  ?" 

"  They  would  not  be  torn  apart.  When  Anna  Hutch- 
inson  saw  this,  she  beckoned  the  Indian  woman,  and  be 
sought  her  to  take  the  two  sisters  deep  into  the  forest, 
away  from  the  sound  of  her  death  cries.  The  sight 
of  that  little  child  made  the  woman's  heart  soft.  She 
could  have  cried,  but  that  the  females  of  her  race  are 
ashamed  of  tears.  When  your  grandmother  saw  this,  she 
stooped  and  whispered,  '  Take  them  away,  and  you  shall 
fire  the  pile  ;  you  shall  kill  me  with  your  own  hands,  and 
feast  on  my  agony  if  it  will  please  you.' 

"  So  the  Pequod  woman  took  the  two  children,  one  a 
young  girl,  the  other  a  little  thing  so  high,  and  led  them 
away  to  her  own  lodge.  When  she  went  back  to  the 
death  fire  it  was  flaming  high.  The  warriors  had  drawn 
close  around  it ;  the  trees  above  were  heavy  with  smoke, 
and  crisping  in  the  hot  wind.  Anna  Hutchinson  was 
chained  to  the  death  pyre.  Her  arms  were  tied  with 
thongs  of  bark,  and  her  hair,  thick  with  silver  threads, 
shone  gloomily  in  the  death  light ;  for  the  flames  had  already 
seized  upon  her  garments  and  were  creeping  up  the  folds, 
hissing  as  they  went.  She  stoed  firm,  looking  toward  the 
path  where  her  little  ones  had  disappeared.  When  the 
woman  came  back  she  called  out,  with  a  great  sob,  '  My 
children,  my  children  !' 

"  '  They  are  safe  in  my  lodge,'  answered  the  Pequod 
wonian. 

"  Then  the  warriors  saw  a  smile  break  over  Anna  Hutch- 
inson's  face,  which  rested  there  till  the  flames  surged  np 
and  veiled  her  form  in  a  cloud  of  fire. 


200  THE     DEATH     FIRE.     . 

"  Then  the  smoke  rose  blackly,  and  hot  flashey  of  fire 
writhed  in  and  out  like  serpents  in  torment.  A  great 
gust  of  wind  rushed  through  the  forest  boughs  and,  sweep 
ing  the  smoke  away,  drove  the  slumbering  flames  into 
fury.  Then  an  awful  cry  broke  from  that  poor  woman. 
The  thongs  that  bound  her  wrists  snapped  asunder — her 
arms  were  flung  wildly  outward  through  the  hot  flames 
and  surging  smoke,  and  her  cry  burst  into  words  of  awful 
entreaty  that  some  one  would  be  merciful  and  kill  her. 

"  The  Pequod  woman  had  a  soft  heart.  That  cry  ran 
through  her  like  an  arrow.  She  could  not  bear  to  see  the 
woman  who  had  brought  back  her  child  from  the  great 
hunting-ground,  more  beautiful  than  ever,  writhing  in  the 
hot  fire  which  hissed,  and  leaped,  and  clung  around  her 
like  fiery  snakes.  The  Indian  woman  took  an  arrow 
from  her  quiver,  and  aimed  at  the  white  bosom  that  the 
flames  \vere  licking  with  a  thousand  hot  tongues.  The 
arrow  lost  itself  in  the  death  fire,  missing  its  aim.  Then 
the  Indian  woman  took  the  tomahawk  from  her  belt  and 
poised  it.  Blinded  with  smoke  and  mad  with  pain,  Anna 
Hutchinson  saw  the  act,  and  struggled  fiercely  to  step 
forth  and  meet  the  blow.  But  the  thongs  that  bound  her 
to  the  stake  were  green  and  defied  the  flames.  So  with 
one  bound  the  Indian  woman  sprang  into  the  fire  and  cleft 
that  broad,  white  forehead  open  with  her  tomahawk." 

"  It  was  a  brave,  a  kind  act,"  cried  Abby,  while  the 
tears  that  had  stood  in  her  eyes,  flashed  downward  like 
broken  diamonds.  "And  was-ihis  the  woman  who  died 
uttering  curses,  and  denouncing  her  persecutors — whose 
terrible  maledictions  cling  to  my  own  life  ?  Tituba,  tell 
me  !  Did  you  hear  Anna  Hutchinson's  curse  come  out 
from  those  death  flames  ?" 

"  No,  maiden — tha,t  was  wrung  fro*n  her  wbeu  her  fam- 


THE     DEATH     FIRE.  201 

ily  were  butchered  at  Aquidaj,  to  which  place  she  had 
been  driven  by  the  people  of  Boston.  Then  she  grew 
mad,  and  words  fell  from  her  lips  like  hot  coals ;  for  the 
sight  of  her  mangled  children  made  her  a  prophetess  ;  but 
afterward,  at  the  stake,  when  the  two  youngest  of  her 
children  were  safe,  she  broke  into  smiles  amid  the  flames." 

The  old  woman  spoke  in  the  Indian  language,  and  her 
narrative  took  a  depth  and  force  which  no  modern  tongue 
can  reach.  Abby  Williams  sat  trembling  under  the  in 
fluence  of  the  fearful  picture  she  had  drawn,  for  the  blood 
of  Anna  Hutchinson  beat  loud  in  her  heart. 

"  And  the  Pequod  woman — where  did  she  go  with  the 
children  ?" 

"  She  took  them  to  her  lodge,  and  loved  them  both  as 
her  own  children.  But  when  her  tribe  was  broken  up, 
and  Uncas  dead,  she  wandered  with  them  among  such 
fragments  of  the  Pequods  as  still  dwelt  in  the  old  hunting- 
grounds.  But  the  elder  maiden  never  took  kindly  to  the 
woods  ;  her  heart  turned  to  her  mother's  people  ;  and  she 
pined  for  a  sight  of  them.  The  Indian  woman  had  a  soft 
heart ;  so  she  came  with  the  maiden  and  her  little  sister  to 
the  sea-shore,  to  find  a  home  for  them  among  the  whites." 

"  Ah  me  !  I  know  it  all,"  cried  Abby.  "  They  came 
here  into  this  very  town.  She,  my  mother,  was  forced 
into  the  wilderness,  as  her  mother  had  been,  driven 
with  the  constable's  scourge.  She  was  found  almost  dying 
in  the  woods  by  King  Philip,  who  made  her  his  wife  I 
know  how  he  fought  and  died,  leaving  that  woman  a 
widow  with  two  children.  One,  a  noble  boy,  was  sold 
into  slavery,  under  the  hot  sun  of  Bermuda,  from  which 
he  was  rescued  to  be  a  fugitive  and  an  outcast  in  the 
woods  where  his  father  once  reigned.  The  other  was 
brought  by  the  dying  widow  to  this  dwelling,  and  left 


202  THE     DEATH     FIRE. 

with  the  golden-haired  daughter  of  Anna  Hutchinson,  who 
had  become  the  wife  of  her  sister's  judge,  Samuel  Parris. 
The  fair  minister's  wife,  and  King  Philip's  widow,  met  in 
this  very  room.  The  widow  was  dying  from  exposure, 
grief,  and  starvation  ;  and  fled  to  find  shelter  for  her  child 
before  she  joined  her  husband.  From  her  cold  lips  the 
minister's  wife  heard,  for  the  first  time,  that  she  was  Anna 
Hutch inson's  child  ;  that  her  only  sister  had  been  scourged 
by  the  orders  of  her  husband.  The  truth  killed  her. 
That  night  her  child,  Elizabeth  Parris,  was  born.  Two 
days  after,  King  Philip's  widow  and  the  minister's  wife 
were  laid  in  the  burying-ground  back  of  that  meeting 
house.  The  two  children  were  left  together,  and  grew  up 
lovingly,  as  sisters  should,  till  all  the  mournful  details  of 
this  story  were  told  to  King  Philip's  daughter  by  her  fugi 
tive  brother,  the  Bermuda  slave. 

"  You  see  I  have  forgotten  nothing  of  this  terrible  story ; 
how  could  I  ?  it  is  graven  on  my  heart,  and  every  mark 
has  left  a  wound.  But  let  me  tell  you  more,  old  woman  ; 
more  of  the  poor  forest-girl  your  love  has  tended  so  long. 
When  this  story  first  reached  her  ear,  she  stood  by  the 
double  grave  of  these  two  sisters,  and  learned  how  they  had 
been  wronged.  Then  all  the  sweet  love  of  her  nature  was 
turned  to  gall;  she  dreaded  the  sight  of  that  fair  being 
who  had  slept  with  her  in  the  same  trundle-bed,  who  had 
been  her  second  life.  She  trembled  with  constant  fear 
that  her  heart  would  fall  back  to  its  old  love  again.  The 
sight  of  these  rude  walls  reminded  her  no  longer  of 
domestic  peace,  but  of  her  mother's  wrongs.  She  was  em 
bittered  by  her  grandmother's  curse.  Oh,  Tituba,  Ti- 
tuba,  this  fearful  thing  have  I  become,  I,  Abigail 
Williams !" 

"  No,  not  Abigail  Williams.     That  name  was  given  io 


TITUBAS     STORY     CONTINUED.       203 

the  meeting-house,  out  there,  and  does  not  belong  to  King 
Philip's  daughter.     He  called  her  Mahaska." 

"Yes,"  said  Abby  ;  and  her  head  fell  forward  upon  her 
bosom  in  deep  despondency ;  "  that  is  my  name ;  it  is 
burned  upon  my  heart !  All  the  waters  of  the  ocean 
would  not  wash  it  out." 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

TITUBA'S  STORY  CONTINUED. 

ABIGAIL  looked  up  again,  after  a  little,  with  something 
of  animation. 

"  But  the  Pequod  Indian — what  became  of  her  ?  If  the 
saviour  of  my  mother  is  alive,  I  must  see  her  !" 

Tituba  cowered  down  to  the  floor  again,  and  clasped 
both  hands  over  her  knees,  as  she  answered  : 

"  She  could  not  help  it.  They  tore  the  two  children 
apart.  One  was  driven  into  the  forest ;  the  other  was 
carried  into  the  meeting-house,  and  baptized  with  a  new 
name,  by  the  very  hands  that  had  driven  her  sister  to  the 
woods.  In  this  golden-haired  child,  the  soul  of  her  own 
offspring  had  entered.  How  could  she  leave  it  to  follow 
the  other  ?  Were  not  the  wolves  and  panthers  more  mer 
ciful  than  the  men  who  kept  her  little  one  ? 

"  The  Indian  woman  went  into  the  edge  of  the  woods, 
and  built  herself  a  bark  wigwam ;  she  gathered  shells 
from  the  beach  and  strung  them  into  wampum,  which 
was  money,  as  gold  is  now.  She  gathered  willows  from 


204       TIT  USA'S     STORY     CONTINUED. 

the  brook,  and  made  baskets  which  she  carried  on  her 
back  to  the  village,  thus  gaining  a  sight  of  the  little  one. 
Sometimes  she  would  go  into  the  meeting-house,  that  she 
might  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  beautiful  girl  who  was  pos 
sessed  of  her  own  child's  soul,  from  the  dark  corner 
where  these  godly  people  allowed  the  Indians  and  negroes 
to  creep  and  watch  them  as  they  worshipped  God.  They 
eaw  the  Indian  woman  come  Sunday  after  Sunday  with 
her  sorrowful  face  ;  so  in  time  they  began  to  regard  her 
as  a  praying  Indian,  and  one  who  might  attain  the  salva 
tion  of  her  heathen  soul,  by  looking  at  them  from  afar  off. 
She  was  a  harmless,  humble  creature,  who  asked  but  to 
follow  the  steps  of  the  child  she  loved  so  much,  without 
making  it  known  that  the  little  girl  was  any  thing  to  her ; 
like  a  dog  they  let  her  pass  from  dwelling  to  dwelling  on 
week  days,  and  in  the  meeting-house  on  Sundays,  without 
hindrance.  Sometimes  she  got  a  chance  to  speak  to  her 
child,  to  give  her  a  bit  of  wampum,  or  a  tiny  basket  to 
pick  whortleberries  in  ;  and  this  was  all  the  happiness  she 
asked. 

"  One  Sunday  the  Indian  woman  went  into  the  meeting 
house  as  usual.  From  her  dark  corner  she  peered  out, 
looking  for  her  child  in  the  old  place.  The  girl  was  not 
there,  but  down,  close  by  the  pulpit,  she  found  her  clothed 
in  white,  like  a  spirit  from  the  far  hunting-grounds.  By 
her  side  was  the  minister,  Samuel  Parris,  the  man  who 
had  sat  in  judgment  on  her  sister.  Another  minister 
preached  in  the  pulpit :  the  people  looked  around  rest 
lessly,  during  the  long  sermon,  and  when  it  closed  there 
was  a  rustling  of  dresses  all  over  the  house,  like  the  stir 
of  leaves  in  the  forest. 

"  The  Indian  woman  turned  cold  in  her  seat.  For  a 
little  time  she  could  not  see ;  but  when  her  eyes  grew 


TIT  USA'S     STOKY     CONTINUED.       205 

clear,  her  child,  her  beautiful  child,  whom  she  had  wor 
shipped  afar  off  like  a  slave,  that  child  stood  in  her  white 
garments  before  the  communion-table,  with  her  hand  in 
that  of  the  old  minister ;  and  before  them  stood  the  man 
who  had  come  down  from  the  pulpit,  muttering  words 
that  could  not  reach  the  dark  corner  where  the  poor 
Indian  stood.  But  she  knew  that  they  were  giving  the 
young  girl — her  child — to  that  stern  old  man  for  his  wife. 
Filled  with  horror,  she  strove  to  cry  out  and  protest 
against  it ;  but  the  tongue  clove  to  the  roof  of  her  mouth, 
and  she  was  dumb.  When  she  struggled  to  get  down 
from  her  high  place  in  the  gallery,  and  make  her  way  to 
the  pulpit,  the  beadle  stopped  her  rudely.  '  Indians  were 
not  permitted,'  he  said,  'to  enter  there.' 

"  While  this  poor  Indian  was  struggling  to  pass  him, 
the  meeting  broke  up.  The  crowd  came  down  the  aisles, 
almost  sweeping  her  away ;  but  she  stood  firm,  till  that 
old  man  came  forward,  leading  her  child  by  the  hand. 
His  bride  saw  the  Indian  mother,  of  whom  she  had  but  a 
knowledge  of  vague  kindnesses,  and  smiled  softly  as  she 
drew  near.  Then  the  poor  creature  knew  that  it  was  too 
late ;  that  her  white  enemies  had  bound  the  young  one  to 
them  forever.  So  she  forgot  her  own  people,  and  followed 
the  old  man  and  his  bride  sorrowfully  home  to  his  house. 
There  was  no  servant  in  the  kitchen.  She  crept  in  through 
the  back  door  and  went  to  work.  Her  heart  was  full  of 
bitterness  and  love  :  hate  for  him,  love  for  her,  the  gentle 
one,  who  came  in  her  meek  beauty  and  settled  down  like 
a  dove  in  his  home. 

"At  first  the  Indian  watched  for  an  opportunity  to  tell 
the  young  wife  that  she  had  married  the  son  of  her 
mother's  persecutor ;  that  the  father  of  Parris  had  been  one 
of  Anna  Hutchinson's  judges ;  and  that  he,  her  bride- 


206     TI TUBA'S   STOKY    CONTINUED. 

groom,  had  been  among  the  worst  enemies  of  her  own  noble 
sister ;  but  when  she  saw  the  young  wife  settling  down 
in  her  new  home,  so  serene  and  contented,  the  Indian's 
heart  failed  her,  and  she  drudged  on  from  day  to  day,  put 
ting  the  cruel  duty  off,  till  at  last  one  night — " 

Abby,  who  had  been  greatly  excited  during  this  recital, 
suddenly  threw  out  her  hand,  laying  it  heavily  on  the 
old  woman's  shoulder. 

"  Do  not  speak  of  that.  I  cannot  bear  to  hear  in  words 
what  is  in  my  own  remembrance  like  a  vague,  wild  dream. 
Enough !  My  mother  died  in  that  chair ;  her  sister, 
Elizabeth  Parris,  expired  the  next  day,  with  a  new-born 
infant  slumbering  in  her  arms.  That  infant  is  my  cousin 
Elizabeth.  The  meek,  old  man,  whose  heart  began  to 
break  that  night,  was  my  mother's  cruel,  cruel  judge. 
But  the  Indian  woman — what  became  of  her  ?" 

The  old  woman  folded  her  arms  more  tightly  about 
her  knees,  and  looked  up  with  the  glance  of  a  faithful 
dog. 

"  Her  children  were  dead,  but  their  little  ones  had  no 
mother,  so  she  stayed  in  the  kitchen." 

"And  died  there?" 

"  Is  Tituba  dead  that  you  ask  this  question  of  her  ?" 

Abby  stooped  down,  trembling  all  over,  and  drew  the 
old  woman  up  to  her  bosom.  She  kissed  her  withered 
face  and  her  swarthy  hands,  with  a  burst  of  passionate 
feeling. 

"  And  is  it  so  ?  God  forgive  me  that  I  did  not  guess 
this  before  !  And  you  have  been  our  slave,  our  drudge  ! 
The  meanest  work  of  the  house  has  always  been  put  upon 
Tituba — poor  old  Tituba,  who  saved  our  mothers  from 
the  flames,  who  followed  us  from  wilderness  to  settlement, 
who  left  her  own  people  for  our  sakes.  And  you  are  so 


TI TUBA'S   STOUY   CONTINUED.       207 

old  too  !  How  many  years,  Tituba,  has  it  taken  to  make 
this  hair  so  gray  ?" 

"  Tituba  is  almost  a  hundred  years  old  ;  but  she  can  see 
like  a  night-hawk,  and  hear  like  a  fox.  When  her  chil 
dren  want  help,  they  will  find  her  thought  keen  and  her 
feet  swift !" 

"  But  you  shall  work  no  more.  I  will  save  you  from 
drudgery  at  least." 

"  No,  no.  Let  Tituba  alone.  She  is  used  to  it.  Work 
— work — work.  What  would  Tituba  be  without  work  ? 
Let  her  plod  on  in  the  old  way,  Mahaska.  The  tree 
thrives  best  in  its  own  soil.  Dig  honeysuckles  and  wild 
strawberries  from  the  wood — plant  them  in  your  garden, 
and  they  grow.  But  when  an  old  hemlock  begins  to  die 
like  this,  let  it  stand — stir  not  the  earth  about  its  roots." 

The  old  woman  touched  her  gray  hair  as  she  spoke, 
and  drooped  into  her  old  position.  Abby  sat  looking  at 
her  in  tender  astouishment.  She  could  understand  the 
great  love  which  had  brought  that  noble  savage  from  the 
wilderness  to  be  a  drudge  in  her  uncle's  kitchen  ;  it  ex 
alted  the  old,  withered  creature  at  her  feet  into  a  heroine. 

"  And  for  our  sakos  you  gave  up  your  people,  your  free 
life,  all  that  makes  the  happiness  of  a  forest  child ;  and 
came  here  to  be  a  slave !" 

"  Tituba  only  followed  her  child !"  was  the  simple  answer. 

"  But  Elizabeth  Parris  knew  nothing  of  all  this  !  To 
her  you  are  only — " 

Abby  broke  off,  for  she  felt  that  the  truths  she  was 
about  to  speak  were  cruel. 

"I  am  only  old  Tituba  to  her,  but  she  is  all  the  world 
to  me." 

"  And  yet  you  hate  her  father — her  stern,  kind-bearted 

father,  for  that  the  minister  is." 
13 


208       TI TUBA'S   STOUT    CONTINUED. 

"He  was  your  mother's  judge  before  he  became  her 
father !" 

"And  she  is  the  grandchild  of  Anna  Hutcbinson, 
oqually  with  myself!"  said  Abigail,  musing. 

"But  not  the  child  of  King  Philip.  Not  the  sister  of 
the  last  chief  of  the  Wampanoags,  who  now  wanders  like 
a  wild  beast  through  the  lands  his  people  once  owned. 
She,  my  golden-haired  child,  is  not  the  one  who  must 
avenge  her  grandmother's  wrongs.  From  the  beginning, 
she  and  her  mother  were  like  singing  birds  to  be  fed  and 
cared  for.  You  and  your  mother  were  eagles,  with 
strength  to  swoop  on  their  enemies  and  your  own.  Eliz 
abeth  must  never  know  the  events  that  are  making  your 
face  so  dark." 

"But why,  why  is  the  sunshine  all  for  her,  the  darkness 
for  me  ?"  answered  Abigail,  with  sorrowful  bitterness. 

The  old  woman  began  to  weave  her  hands  together,  and 
rock  to  and  fro  with  a  troubled  look. 

"  The  eagle  soars  ;  the  mocking-bird  sings.  One  seeks 
her  nest  in  the  leaves,  the  other  sits  on  the  crags." 

"The  bleak,  bare  crags  for  me — flowery  hollows  for 
her,"  said  Abigail,  despondingly.  "  It  was  so  with  our 
mothers ;  it  must  be  so  with  us." 

As  she  spoke,  the  outer  door  of  the  house  opened,  and 
Wahpee,  an  old  Indian,  who,  like  Tituba,  had  been  for 
years  a  hanger-on  of  the  minister's  kitchen,  entered  the 
sitting-room.  He  had  been  absent  some  days,  and  it  was 
in  expectation  of  his  return  that  the  young  girl  and  Tituba 
were  sitting  up  so  late. 

The  Indian  seemed  tired  with  travel.  His  dress  of 
homespun  linen  was  torn  in  places,  and  the  rents  pinned 
up  with  thorns  just  plucked  from  their  trees.  The  lank 
hair  was  moist,  and  a  rain  of  perspiration  glistened  on  his 


TI  TUBAS     STOBY     CONTINUED.          209 

tawny  forehead.     Abby  rose   from   her   seat,  and  went 
eagerly  toward  him. 

"  Wahpee — Wahpee,  have  you  seen  him  ? — where  is  he 
now  ?     Have  any  number  of  his  people  joined  him  yet  ?" 
Wahpee  shook  his  head. 

"Ask  Wahpee  nothing;  he  has  no  words.  Give  him 
bread  and  dried-beef.  The  Wampanoags  planted  no  corn, 
and  they  have  no  muskets  to  shoot  down  the  deer 
that  look  in  their  eyes  without  moving  as  they  file  one  by 
one  through  the  woods.  Even  the  young  fawns  grow 
bold,  now  that  the  warriors  have  given  up  their  guns." 

"  And  is  he  near  and  hungry  ?"  cried  Abby,  hastening 
to  the  kitchen,  where  old  Tituba  was  dragging  forth  bread 
from  a  huge  oven,  in  which  it  had  been  left  after  the 
week's  baking  ;  and  crowding  loaf  after  loaf  into  a  flour 
sack,  she  helped  to  lift  it  on  Wahpee's  back. 

Both  Abigail  Williams  and  Tituba  would  have  followed 
the  old  Indian  into  the  forest ;  but  he  curtly  ordered  them 
back,  and  went  on  himself,  carrying  the  bag  of  bread. 
They  stole  after  him  at  a  distance,  notwithstanding  his 
interdict,  till  they  came  to  the  meeting-house.  Here  they 
paused.  The  shadows  upon  the  brink  of  the  woods  were 
black  as  death  ;  and  as  the  old  man  entered  them  he  was 
lost  in  an  instant. 

"  Let  us  wait,"  said  Tituba,  "  they  will  come  out  to 
gether.  Metacomet  will  come  to  his  mother's  grave  ;  and 
then  we  shall  know  what  he  is  doing." 

Abigail  went  silently  after  the  old  woman,  and  sat  down 
on  a  flat  stone,  half  buried  in  moss  and  ferns,  at  the  foot 
of  a  huge  pine  tree,  which  sheltered  two  graves.  There 
she  seemed  covered  by  a  vast  pall,  the  shadows  fell  HO 
heavily  upon  her. 

Tituba  dropped  down  at  Abby's  feet,  and  gathering  her 


210       TITUBA'S   STORY   CONTINUED. 

limbs  together,  began  a  low  chant,  that  mingled  in  the 
shiver  of  the  pine  leaves  with  inexpressible  niournfulness. 

Abby  leaned  her  head  against  the  trunk  of  the  pine  and 
listened.  Strange  to  say,  that  chant,  instead  of  depressing, 
kindled  her  spirit.  She  never  came  to  that  spot,  and  heard 
the  mysterious  whispering  of  the  leaves,  without  a  wish 
for  action,  an  unaccountable  desire  to  plunge  into  the 
wilderness  and  remain  there  forever.  Only  one  week  be 
fore,  she  had  wandered  to  the  same  spot,  and  there,  for 
the  first  time,  learned  from  his  own  lips  Chat  she  had  a 
brother;  that  the  blood  of  King  Philip  mingled  with  that 
of  Anna  Hutchinson,  the  martyr,  in  her  veins  ;  and  that 
on  both  sides  the  most  terrible  wrongs  had  been  done  to 
her  ancestors  by  the  very  people  with  whom  she  had  un 
consciously  worshipped  ;  nay  I  by  the  man  whose  roof  had 
given  her  a  loving  shelter,  from  the  cradle  up. 

On  that  spot  she  had  seen  her  kingly  brother,  in  all  the 
grandeur  of  a  noble  presence  inherited  from  his  father, 
blended  with  the  softened  grace  of  a  mother,  whose  pure 
white  blood  softened  the  eagle  glances  of  his  eyes  and 
gave  a  glow  to  his  face,  kindling  that  which  would  other 
wise  have  been  saturnine  into  the  poetry  of  an  ever 
changing  expression.  • 

The  slave  chief  had  been  rescued  from  his  chains  in 
Bermuda;  and  after  wandering  over  many  countries, 
studying  things  that  were  far  beyond  the  grasp  of  a  mere 
savage,  had  come  back  to  bis  native  forests,  to  gather  up 
the  fragments  of  his  people,  and  win  back  their  rights,  or 
avenge  their  wrongs.  Night  after  night  he  had  waited 
by  those  graves,  under  the  pine  tree,  hoping  that  his 
sister  would  come  and  meet  him. 

She  came  at  kst,  a  thoughtful,  innocent  girl.  The 
gentle  romance  of  affection,  for  there  could  be  little  more 


TITUBA'S   STORY   CONTINUED.       211 

in  a  child  who  remembered  her  mother  only  as  she  thought 
of  her  in  dreams,  led  her  to  the  edge  of  the  wilderness. 
She  went  away  again,  wounded  by  a  terrible  knowledge— 
a  sybil  in  her  imagination,  the  pledged  avenger  of  her 
mother's  wrongs,  and  of  her  father's  and  her  grand 
mother's  murder. 

Thus  the  son  and  daughter  of  King  Philip  had  met,  for 
the  first  time  since  their  childhood.  The  boy  knew  that 
he  still  possessed  a  sister,  and  this  thought  inspired  him 
to  greater  struggles.  Then  Abby  Williams  learned,  from 
her  brother's  own  lips,  how  it  chanced  that  her  brow  was 
darker  than  the  sunny  forehead  of  her  cousin  Elizabeth; 
that  wrong  and  death  had  scattered  her  family  abroad,  leav 
ing  her  a  dependent,  where  she  should  have  been  an  avenger. 

All  that  week  the  hopeless  girl  brooded  on  the  ter 
rors  of  her  birth,  and  the  wrongs  her  family  had  suf 
fered  ;  her  days  were  one  long,  vague  dream — her  nights 
restless  with  tossing  thought.  Never  again  would  she 
know  what  tranquil  peace  was  under  that  roof  I  A  jour 
ney  of  fifteen  miles  only  separated  her  from  her  uncle 
Parris  and  Elizabeth,  so  far  as  space  was  concerned ;  but 
there  was  no  means  of  measuring  the  interminable  dis 
tance  that  had  grown  up  between  their  souls  and  hers  in 
one  single  week. 

That  night  she  bad  again  spoken  of  her  parents,  and 
expected  to  see  her  brother.  During  the  hours  that  she 
waited,  old  Tituba  had  crept  to  her  feet,  with  new  rev 
elations  and  more  startling  surprises.  The  young  girl 
listened,  seated  in  the  very  chair  that  had  been  her 
mother's  death-couch.  She  was  a  creature  of  sensitive 
feeling  and  keen  imagination,  a  thoughtful,  ardent  girl,  to 
whom  such  knowledge  came  like  fire  to  steel,  melting  and 
hardening  at  the  same  time. 


212  AMONG     THE     SHADOWS. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

AMONG     THE     SHADOWS. 

Now  Abigail  Williams  sat  waiting  for  her  brother,  in 
vague  expectation,  for  Wahpee  had  given  no  account  of 
his  chief's  movements,  and  Abbj  could  only  listen  for  the 
sound  of  his  footsteps  on  the  forest  turf. 

All  at  once,  as  her  eyes  wandered  toward  the  woods, 
she  heard  a  movement,  but  not  in  that  direction.  The 
meeting-house  stood  close  on  the  verge  of  the  forest,  and 
the  arched  window,  back  of  its  pulpit,  was  almost  touched 
by  the  swinging  tree-branches.  Between  them  and  the 
building  Abby  saw  a  human  figure  moving  swiftly  through 
the  gloom. 

"  Tituba,  Tituba — look  up,"  she  whispered,  hushing  her 
very  breath,  for  the  figure  came  out  into  the  star-light, 
and  glided  toward  them  like  a  ghost. 

Tituba  lifted  her  face,  and  held  the  chant  trembling  on 
her  lips ;  they  were  both  in  the  deep  darkness  of  the 
pines ;  but  the  woman  who  came  forward  had  the  star 
light  on  her  face. 

"  Is  it — is  it  my  mother  ?"  whispered  Abby,  prompt  to 
believe  any  thing  strange  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment. 
"  See  how  sad,  how  beautiful  she  is." 

Tituba  pressed  back  against  her  young  mistress,  striving 
to  bury  herself  more  deeply  in  the  darkness. 

"  Is  it  my  mother — or  the  one  you  loved  so  much  ?" 

Tituba  drew  a  long  breath,  but  did  not  answer ;  for  the 
figure  came  close  up  to  the  two  graves,  and  stooping 


AMONG     THE     SHADOWS.  213 

down,  tried  to  make  out  the  moss-grown  letters  on  the 
stone,  tracing  the  outline  with  her  fore-finger  when  the 
light  proved  insufficient. 

"  Mother !" 

The  word  died  on  Abby's  lips,  and  was  carried  off  in 
the  whisper  of  the  pine  leaves. 

Tituba  lifte:  her  hand,  grasping  that  in  Abby's  lap  with 
a  warning  force. 

"  Elizabeth — yes  !  it  is  Elizabeth — Elizabeth  Pa-r-ris  ! 
The  moss  chokes  up  the  name,  but  it  is  here.  Poor  girl 
— poor  young  wife  !"  murmured  a  low,  sweet  voice  from 
out  of  the  shadows.  "  And  this  grave,  so  close,  with  the 
vines  creeping  over  both.  Who  can  this  be  ?  Elizabeth 
Parris  was  an  orphan,  a  beautiful  charity  child  of  the 
church — who  can  be  lying  so  close  ?" 

The  woman  knelt  down,  as  she  uttered  these  disjointed 
words,  and  touched  the  foliage  on  the  two  graves  lightly 
with  her  hands. 

"Here  it  was  they  buried  the  old  man's  heart.  I  al 
most  feel  the  blossoms  springing  out  of  it  1"  murmured  the 
voice.  "  Oh,  if  there  were  only  a  place  for  another  here — 
surely  this  spot  would  be  quiet  and  roomy  enough  for  us 
all  1" 

The  strange  woman  took  a  ribbon  slowly  from  her 
waist,  as  she  spoke,  and  held  it  in  the  star-light. 

"  I  have  but  to  tighten  this  about  my  throat,  and  lie 
down — a  pang  or  two — a  struggle,  and  when  the  light 
drives  these  shadows  back  into  the  woods,  some  one  would 
find  me  here — in  charity  they  would  dig  through  the  turf 
a  little,  and  lay  me  down  by  sweet  Elizabeth  Parris. 
Who  would  know  of  it  ?  Who,  on  the  broad  earth,  would 
care  ?  It  would  only  be  a  poor,  lone  woman,  dropping 
into  death  before  her  time — a  wanderer,  worn  out  with 


214  AMONG     THE     SHADOWS. 

travel  through  a  weary,  weary  world,  who  asked  only  to 
lie  down  and  be  still." 

The  tender  sadness  of  these  words — the  despondency  in 
that  face,  touched  Abby  Williams  to  the  heart.  She  was 
about  to  rise,  but  Tituba  held  her  back. 

The  woman's  hand  dropped,  trailing  the  ribbon  on  the 
grass.  She  seemed  to  fall  into  thought.  Her  eyes  were 
uplifted  towards  the  stars,  and  with  solemn  mournfulness 
she  spoke  again  : 

"  A  little  while,  and  this  soul  would  be  yonder,  standing 
before  those  bright  gates,  and  asking  for  that  love  in 
heaven  which  earth  has  denied ;  asking  this  of  God,  who 
has  not  summoned  me,  but  who  will  look  first  on  the 
crimson  mark  around  my  neck.  No,  no ;  even  death  is 
not  mine  to  take — I  must  wander  on  and  on,  till  God  is 
merciful  and  calls  me  !" 

With  a  slow,  weary  movement  of  the  hands,  she  tied 
the  ribbon  around  her  waist  again,  and,  sitting  down  on 
the  grave  of  Elizabeth  Parris,  folded  her  arms,  with  a 
gesture  of  unutterable  despondency,  as  if  she  were  waiting 
for  the  death  she  dared  not  take. 

That  moment  there  was  a  movement  in  the  forest. 
Abby  and  the  Indian  woman  looked  that  way,  but  it  was 
only  a  young  fawn,  which  came  leaping  through  the 
brushwood,  and  basked  a  moment  in  the  starlight  before 
she  returned  to  the  thicket,  from  which  some  stronger 
animal  had  frightened  her. 

When  Abby  looked  toward  the  grave  again,  nothing 
was  there.  The  cool,  green  leaves  twinkled  in  the  star 
light,  as  if  no  human  thing  had  touched  them.  She  arose 
and  searched  the  grass.  Not  a  footprint  could  be  found, 
and  the  open  space,  which  lay  botween  them  and  the 


AMONG     THE     SHADOWS.  215 

meeting-house,  was  vacant.  She  looked  at  the  Indian 
woman  in  vague  alarm. 

"  Who  was  this  woman  ?  and  where  has  she  gone  ?" 

Tituba  shook  her  head.  She  was  a  firm  believer  in 
ghosts  and  witchcraft.  The  apparition  had  filled  her  with 
terrible  awe.  Once  before,  in  her  life,  she  bad  seen  the 
same  face  gleaming  before  her  in  the  starlight  of  a  sum 
mer's  evening ;  and  after  that  came  sore  trouble  on  the 
household. 

"  Was  it  my  mother  searching  for  rest  ?  Will  she 
wander  forever  and  ever,  unless  I  avenge  her  ?" 

"  Come  into  the  house,  child,  it  is  near  morning :  the 
chief  will  not  be  here  to-night." 

"  Tell  me,"  cried  Abigail,  solemnly,  "  for  I  must  know  : 
was  it  my  mother  ?" 

"  I  did  not  see  her  face.  Something  came  across  my 
eyes  and  blinded  them ;  but  she  was  tall  and  stately  like 
your  mother." 

"  She  need  not  come  again,  I  will  not  falter,"  said 
Abigail,  with  sorrowful  earnestness. 

They  went  together  into  the  house,  full  of  vague  dread. 
Tituba  followed  the  young  girl  up-stairs,  and  forcing  her 
to  lie  down,  coiled  herself  up  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and 
lay  with  her  bright,  black  eyes  wide  open,  till  the  morn 
ing  broke.  Then  she  arose  softly,  and  going  down  to  the 
kitchen,  began  to  prepare  breakfast.  Wahpee  had  not  yet 
returned  from  the  woods,  and  there  was  no  one  to  provide 
for  but  the  young  girl  up-stairs ;  but  the  old  woman 
mixed  her  corn  bread,  stamped  the  pats  of  golden  butter, 
and  set  her  rye  coffee  down  to  boil  in  its  conical  tin  pot, 
with  as  much  bustle  of  preparation  as  if  the  whole  family 
were  to  partake  of  the  meal  she  was  preparing. 

When    nil    \vas   ready,    when   the   round,   cherry-wood 


216  AMONG     THE     SHADOWS. 

table  was  turned  down  from  its  place  in  a  corner  of  the 
sitting-room,  and  drawn  up  to  the  window,  through  which 
the  sweet  summer  air  came  rippling  among  the  wild  roses 
and  bitter-sweet  vines,  Tituba  went  up  to  the  room  where 
Abby  was  sleeping.  It  was  a  singular  face  upon  which 
the  old  woman  gazed.  The  masses  of  raven  hair,  the 
long,  inky  lashes,  and  the  mouth,  so  beautifully  red,  pos 
sessed  a  rare  loveliness,  which  the  agitation  of  other 
features  could  not  altogether  destroy.  But  the  forehead 
was  contracted  with  a  frown,  the  lips  writhed  with  a 
troubled  expression,  and  her  billowy  hair  rippled  to  and 
fro  on  the  pillow  from  the  constant  change  of  position, 
sought  for  in  her  restless  sleep. 

"Abby — Abby  1"  whispered  the  old  woman,  "  come, 
wake  up ;  it  is  most  seven  o'clock,  and  the  breakfast  all 
ready." 

Abby  turned  on  the  pillow,  and  her  forehead  gathered 
into  a  heavy  frown. 

"  Do  not  call  me,  mother.  Why  will  you  wander  on — 
on — on  forever  and  ever,  so  restlessly,  as  if  your  child 
would  not  keep  her  oath  ?  Wait  a  little,  while  I  look  on 
your  face.  The  wave  of  your  white  garments  troubles  me. 
The  starlight  is  dim.  I  cannot  hold  you  in  my  look,  or 
grasp  you  with  my  hand — oh — " 

She  opened  her  eyes  with  a  groan,  and  sat  up  in  bed. 
The  gentle  shake  which  Tituba  had  given  her  seemed  to 
wrench  the  garments,  she  had  seized  upon  in  her  dreams, 
rudely  from  her  grasp. 

"Breakfast  is  ready,  child." 

"Breakfast!" 

"  Yes,  child,  breakfast ;  warm  Johnny  cake,  and  a  nice 
little  bit  of  ham.  Don't  think  any  more  about  it.  If  the 
Great  Spirit  sends  witches,  he  knows  ho w  to  keep  'em  under. " 


AMONG      THE      SHADOWS.  217 

"I  will  come  down,"  said  Abby,  wearily,  holding  one 
hand  to  her  forehead. 

"  That's  a  good  child — and  do  try  and  look  a  little  like 
old  times.  What  if  the  minister  and  our  Lizzy  should 
come  back  to-day  ? — who  knows  ?" 

"  Heaven  forbid  !"  cried  the  young  girl,  in  pale  affright. 
"  I  am  not  ready  yet.  How  can  I  tell  what  the  woman 
wants  till  she  speaks  to  me  ?  If  Anna  Hutchinson  must 
be  avenged,  explain  how  the  evil  thing  is  to  be  done. 
Dear  Tituba,  tell  me  truly.  You  don't  expect  the  minister 
home  to-day  ?" 

"  Why,  how  can  I  tell  for  certain  ?  He  ought  to  have 
been  home  weeks  ago." 

"Am  I  changed,  Tituba  ?  Hold  up  the  looking-glass^ 
and  let  me  see  for  myself." 

Tituba  raised  the  little  looking-glass,  in  its  carved 
cherry-wood  frame,  and  held  it  before  the  girl's  face. 

Abby  shook  her  head  mournfully. 

"  How  old  I  look  !  What  a  strange  glitter  comes  and 
goes  in  these  eyes.  It  is  the  Indian  blood,  I  suppose. 
That,  and  the  things  I  have  been  told,  Tituba.  Don't  it 
seem  a  great  deal  more  than  three  weeks  since  the 
minister  went  away  ?" 

"  I  don't  know — yes  !  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it  seems 
so ;  but  Tituba  counts  time  from  the  week  when  Miss 
Elizabeth  went  off  to  visit  Lady  Phipps  in  her  grand,  new 
house  at  Boston.  Oh,  it  will  be  like  a  bird  getting  back 
to  its  nest  when  she  comes  home." 

"A  bird  getting  back  to  its  nest — old  Tituba  ?  Well, 
why  not  ?  She  will  sleep  quietly,  and  dream  sweetly  as 
ever.  It  is  only  I— I.  Come,  old  Tituba,  let's  go  down 
to  breakfast ;  at  least  we  have  twelve  hours  of  day  before 
us  :  who  knows  what  another  night,  will  bring  ?" 


218  AMONG      THE      SHADOWS. 

"  Yes,  yes — come  to  breakfast ;  it's  unhealthy  talking 
on  an  empty  stomach." 

As  they  went  through  the  little  entry  way  below  stairs, 
a  soft  knock  came  to  the  outer  door.  Abby  went  forward 
and  sat  down  at  the  breakfast-table,  while  Tituba  lifted 
the  wooden  latch  and  opened  the  door. 

A  lady  stood  on  the  step,  wrapped  in  a  scarlet  man 
tle,  with  the  hood  drawn  over  her  face.  She  was  pale, 
and  seemed  to  have  walked  a  great  distance,  for  her  light 
boots  of  foreign  make  were  torn  at  the  sides,  and  soiled 
with  moist  earth,  while  the  edge  of  a  light  gray  silk  dress, 
which  fell  below  her  mantle,  was  frayed  and  spotted,  as  if 
it  had  been  dragged  over  wet  grass. 

The  woman  lifted  her  eyes  to  Tituba  an  instant  before 
she  spoke ;  then,  in  a  voice  singularly  low  and  gentle,  she 
inquired  if  Mr.  Parris  had  reached  home  yet. 

Old  Tituba  replied,  with  a  little  unaccountable  hesita 
tion,  that  the  minister  had  gone  to  Boston ;  that  he  in 
tended  to  bring  Miss  Elizabeth  home  with  him  ;  but  that 
there  was  no  saying,  for  a  certainty,  when  they  would 
come. 

"You  may  expect  them  within  an  hour  or  two,"  said 
the  stranger,  gently,  "so  I  will  step  in  and  wait." 

She  glided  softly  into  the  hall  while  speaking,  opened 
the  sitting-room  door  like  one  used  to  the  house,  and 
went  in. 

Abby  had  seated  herself  at  the  table,  but  she  arose  as 
the  stranger  entered,  naturally  -looking  that  way.  The 
thrill  that  passed  through  her  frame  amounted  almost  to 
a  shock.  Two  contending  wishes  seized  upon  her.  She 
longed  to  dash  through  the  \vindow  and  flee  ;  yet  was  im 
pelled  toward  the  stranger  by  a  power  she  could  neither 
understand  nor  resist. 


AMONG     T  H  K     SHADOWS.  219 

With  this  conflict  of  the  nerves  visible  on  her  face,  she 
came  forward  and  laid  her  hand  in  that  of  the  stranger. 
Again  the  thrill  passed  over  her,  but  as  those  soft  fingers 
closed  upon  her  hand,  this  singular  agitation  went  off  in 
&  pleasant  shiver,  and  the  two  females  smiled  sadly  on 
each  other,  like  persons  who  had  met  for  the  first  time 
after  some  severe  bereavement. 

"  Your  old  servant  tells  me  that  the  minister  is  not  at 
home  yet,"  said  the  lady,  "  so  I  have  ventured  to  come  in 
and  wait.  Do  not  let  me  disturb  you  at  breakfast  though  ; 
I  will  walk  toward  the  meeting-house  yonder ;  it  seems  a 
quaint,  old  building." 

She  turned  as  if  to  go,  but  Abby  could  not  give  up  the 
hand  in  hers  without  a  feeling  of  emotion  amounting  almost 
to  pain. 

"  No,  lady,  stay  and  take  breakfast  with  me.  I  am 
alone,  you  see  ;  old  Tituba  never  sits  at  a  table,  but  eats 
her  meals  as  she  goes  about  her  work.  You  look  tired, 
and  as  if  a  warm  cup  of 'coffee  would  refresh  you.  Take 
off  your  mantle  and  sit  down  in  this  chair." 

Abby  drew  the  great  oak  chair  up  to  the  table,  and 
stood  with  one  band  on  the  back,  waiting  for  her  guest 
to  throw  off  her  mantle.  But  the  lady  only  pushed  the 
hood  back  to  her  shoulders,  revealing  a  quantity  of 
splendid  hair,  that  was  swept  from  her  white  temples  in 
heavy  waves  The  face  thus  exhibited  was  not  young, 
i.or  would  a  common-place  observer  have  called  it  beauti 
ful  ;  but  it  was  a  grand  face,  nevertheless,  and  one  which 
no  great-hearted  man  or  woman  could  have  looked  upon 
without  a  glow  of  enthusiasm. 

She  sat  down  in  the  oak  chair,  took  the  earthen  coffee- 
cup  which  Abby  had  filled  for  her,  and  began  slowly  and 
wearilv  to  drink  the  contents.  She  broke  off  a  morsel  of 


220  THE     MORNING     RIDE. 

the  corn  bread  now  aud  then,  with  the  indifferent  air  of 
one  whose  appetite  is  forced,  but  did  not  fail  to  say  a  few 
gentle  words  to  her  hostess,  with  that  delicate  self-abnega 
tion  which  makes  a  well-bred  woman  forget  her  own 
weariness  or  suffering,  at  all  times,  where  the  feelings  of 
others  are  concerned. 

The  reaction  of  a  strong  excitement  was  on  Abigail. 
But  the  fascination  which  surrounded  this  woman  was  so 
irresistible  that  she  forgot  every  thing  but  the  charm  of 
her  presence. 

Old  Tituba  came  in  and  out  of  the  room,  clearing  away 
the  breakfast  things  as  the  two  females  drew  back  from 
their  meal.  At  last,  eying  the  stranger  with  keen  interest, 
the  old  woman  drew  close  up  to  the  oak  chair,  and,  peer 
ing  over  the  lady's  shoulder,  said,  in  her  curt  way, 

"  You  forgot  to  tell  me  what  your  name  was  when  you 
asked  for  the  minister." 

"  My  name,"  said  the  lady,  with  a  faint  smile.  "  Yes  ! 
I  did  forget  it.  My  name  is  Barbara  Stafford." 


CHAPTER    XXY. 

THE   MORNING   RIDE. 

AN  old  man  and  a  young  girl,  followed  at  a  little  dis 
tance  by  a  staid  looking  man-servant,  in  the  gubernatorial 
livery,  all  mounted  on  fine  horses,  moved  briskly  through 
the  forest  road  that  ran  between  Boston  and  Salem,  on 
the  morning  when  Barbara  Stafford  presented  herself  at 


THE     MORNING     RIDE.  221 

the  minister's  house.  They  had  been  abroad  since  the 
dawn,  had  watched  the  sunrise  shed  its  first  gold  on  the 
pine  tops  and  budding  hemlock  branches,  with  the  exhil 
aration  which  springs  from  a  bright  day.  It  was  with 
difficulty  that  the  young  girl  could  keep  from  giving  her 
horse  the  bit  and  dashing  forward,  she  was  so  buoyant  with 
animal  life,  so  gay  with  the  sweet  joy  that  filled  her  heart. 
Elizabeth  Parris  could  never  do  wrong  in  her  father's 
eyes.  When  she  now  and  then  gave  her  horse  the  rein 
and  dashed  under  the  forest  boughs,  scattering  the  turf 
with  a  storm  of  diamonds  as  she  passed,  the  old  man  could 
only  follow  her  with  an  anxious  smile,  till  she  wheeled 
again  and  made  her  steed  come  dancing  toward  him  on  the 

sward.     Then  she  would  join  him,  laughing  so  gayly  in 

1 
her  saddle  that  the  very  robins  sang  louder  as  they  heard 

her,  as  if  some  mocking-bird  had  challenged  them  to  a 
musical  rivalry. 

"  Look,  father,  look  bow  beautiful  the  morning  is,"  she 
cried,  wheeling  her  horse  around  the  trunk  of  a  great  elm 
tree,  that  stood  out  on  the  highway,  and  caracoling  up  to 
his  side  again  ;  "  every  footpath  which  leads  to  the  forest 
seems  paved  with  gold,  all  the  branches  overhead  quiver 
again  as  the  dew  that  wets  them  begins  to  burn  in  the 
sun.  You  are  right,  father — I  feel  it  in  the  depths  of  my 
heart — you  are  right  in  the  pulpit  and  out,  when  you  tell 
us  to  bless  God  forever  and  ever,  that  he  has  made  us  this 
grand,  beautiful  world.  Oh,  I  could  sing  like  a  bird,  but 
with  a  new  tune,  father  ;  nothing  that  I  have  ever  learned 
is  joyous  enough  for  this  heavenly  morning." 

"  Heavenly  !  my  child,"  said  the  minister,  with  a  gentle 
effort  at  rebuke.  "  Remember  that  the  holy  place,  where 
our  Lord  rests,  is  sacred,  and  must  not  be  compared  to 
things  of  earth." 


222  THE     MORNING      HIDE. 

"  Why  not,  father  ?  The  same  God  created  the  heavena 
and  the  earth,  and  all  that  in  them  is.  So  when  every 
thing  here  seems  like  heaven,  why  not  say  so  in  sweet 
thankfulness  ?" 

The  minister  shook  his  head. 

"  Indeed,  I  can't  help  it  1"  continued  the  girl,  dashing 
up  to  a  thicket  where  a  red-winged  black-bird  had  settled, 
and  frightening  the  pretty  creature  deep  into  the  woods 
with  her  impetuous  admiration.  "  It's  a  beautiful  morn 
ing.  I'm  going  home.  Every  minute  brings  me  nearer 
— I  shall  see  cousin  Abby.  Oh,  how  her  heart  will  leap 
for  joy  when  we  come  up !  and  old  Tituba,  bless  the  pre 
cious  old  soul,  and  Wahpee ;  upon  my  word,  father,  I  think, 
I  am  sure  that  is  Wahpee  yonder,  with  that  young  man  in 
the  hunting-frock.  Indeed,  I'm  quite  certain  it  is:  he's 
coming  to  meet  us  perhaps.  Wahpee,  Wahpee,  you  blessed 
old  Indian,  how  are  you  ?  how  are  they  all  at  home  ?" 

She  rode  forward  at  a  gallop,  dashing  through  the 
shadow,  over  patches  of  sunshine,  and  calling  out  for  her 
father  not  to  be  afraid,  she  only  wanted  to  speak  first  to 
dear  old  Wahpee  ;  but  just  as  she  came  up  to  the  spot 
where  he  had  seemed  to  be  standing,  she  saw  only  a  young 
man  in  a  hunter's  frock  of  dressed  deerskin,  with  leggins 
of  crimson  cloth,  and  a  cap  striped  with  blue  and  red  vel 
vet,  which  fell  in  a  point  to  the  left  shoulder,  where  it 
terminated  in  a  tassel  of  silk  and  glittering  beads.  He 
held  a  slender  gun  in  his  hand,  which  he  planted  on  the 
turf  as  Elizabeth  rode  up,  leaning  upon  it  with  the  grace 
of  an  Apollo. 

The  young  girl  drew  in  her  horse,  and  looked  around, 
amazed  to  find  the  young  man  alone,  nnd  expecting  to  see 
Wahpee  spring  out  from  behind  pome  bush  to  frighten  her 
\frith  a  whoop,  as  ho  had  done  a  hundred  timw  before. 


THE     MORNING      RIDE.  223 

But  the  morning  wind,  whispering  through  the  woods, 
was  all  the  sound  she  heard.  Where  was  Wahpee  ? 
What  could  have  become  of  him  ?  Surely  it  was  his  form 
she  had  seen  a  moment  before  standing  by  that  singular 
man  ! 

All  this  passed  through  her  mind  while  the  strange 
young  man  was  preparing  to  move  on ;  but  when  she  saw 
that  he  was  absolutely  alone,  the  color  mounted  hotly  to 
her  face,  and  with  a  light  laugh  at  herself  she  drew  her 
horse  on  one  side,  saying,  with  that  exquisite  grace  which 
renders  the  very  boldness  of  youth  sometimes  very  attrac 
tive, 

"  I  beg  pardon,  sir,  for  cantering  up  in  this  wild  way  ; 
but  in  fact  I  thought  some  one  was  with  you  whom  I  love 
dearly  and  haven't  seen  for  a  long  time ;  pray  tell  me, 
where  he  is  hiding." 

The  young  man  had  been  regarding  her  with  a  half 
smile.  His  fine  black  eyes  sparkled  with  a  sort  of  mock 
ing  merriment,  mingled  with  an  expression  of  such  ad 
miration  as  kept  the  blushes  warm  on  the  young  girl's 
face. 

"  You  have  seen  the  shadow,  which  a  bright  morning 
sun  keeps  close  to  my  side,  and  mistake  it  for  a  warrior,  I 
dare  say,  young  lady  ;  for  certainly  no  one  could  be  more 
alone  than  I  am." 

He  said  this  in  accents  so  foreign  that  Elizabeth  looked 
on  him  with  new  interest,  wondering  greatly  from  what 
part  of  the  earth  he  had  come. 

His  face  was  dark,  certainly,  but  more  from  exposure 
to  the  sun  than  any  thing  else,  and  the  cluster  of  raven 
hair  that  fell  from  under  his  cap,  waving  almost  into  full 
curl  around  his  temples,  had  that  purplish  bloom  which  is 

so  beautiful,  but  seldom  found  even  when  black  hair  is 
14 


224  THE     MORNING     RIDE. 

most  glossy.  Who  could  this  man  be,  with  those  ex 
quisitely  cut  features,  that  form  at  once  so  proud  and  so 
wildly  graceful,  above  all  with  a  voice  whose  broken 
sweetness  went  to  the  soul  at  once,  even  when  its  words 
were  imperfectly  understood  ? 

"  Was  I,  indeed,  so  miserably  cheated  ?"  said  Elizabeth, 
at  last,  striving  to  laugh  away  her  confusion.  "  Well, 
well,  I  ain't  the  first  girl,  by  many,  that  has  been  caught 
by  shadows.  Pray  forgive  me,  sir.  I  have  no  excuse 
but  that  Wahpee  is  a  dear,  old  fellow,  who  carried  me 
pick-a-back  before  I  could  walk  ;  and  I  haven't  seen  him 
for  months ;  besides,  I  am  half  crazy  at  getting  home 
again.  Perhaps  you  don't  know  what  it  is  to  return 
home,  after  a  long  absence,  and,  and — I  beg  pardon,  sir — 
what  have  I  said  to  offend  you  ?"  she  cried,  suddenly, 
startled  by  the  look  that  shot  athwart  that  handsome 
face. 

"  Offend  me  ?  Nothing,"  he  answered,  with  a  strange 
smile. 

"  Nay,  but  I  am  sure  you  looked  either  angry  or 
pained,"  cried  the  young  girl,  anxiously. 

"  Shadows  again.  It  was  but  the  waving  of  that  tree 
bough  across  my  face.  Why  should  any  one  feel  either 
anger  or  pain,  because  a  young  lady  is  rejoiced  to  get 
back  to  her  friends,  after  a  long  absence  ?'' 

"  Truly — why  should  they  ?"  replied  Elizabeth,  drawing 
her  horse  slowly  back,  beginning  to  be  conscious  that  this 
conversation  with  a  total  stuanger  was  a  little  out  of  the 
ordinary  course  of  her  strict,  social  life.  "  So,  now  that 
there  are  no  more  shadows  to  distract  me,  I  will  ride  back 
and  keep  near  my  father. " 

"  One  moment,"  said  the  young  man,  drawing  close  to 
her  horse,  "  tell  me — who  is  your  father,  and,  and — " 


THE     MORNING     RIDE.  225 

"  Oh,  here  he  is  to  speak  for  himself,"  cried  Elizabeth, 
drawing  a  deep  breath,  for  the  young  man's  approach  and 
earnest  manner  had  startled  her. 

The  stranger  dropped  his  hand  from  the  neck  of  her 
horse,  where  it  had  slightly  rested,  took  up  his  gun,  and 
with  a  sharp  glance  at  the  minister,  took  a  footpath 
which  led  into  the  woods. 

"  What  is  this,  Elizabeth  ?  My  dear  child,  what  does 
it  mean  ?"  cried  the  minister,  riding  up  with  an  anxious 
face  ;  "  a  stranger  with  his  hand  on  your  bridle." 

"  No,  no,  father :  only  on  my  horse's  neck.  He  was 
asking  about  you — nothing  else — but  did  you  see  his 
face  ?" 

"  Yes,  child,  it  was  a  dark,  beautiful  face.  Like  those 
we  find  in  that  book  of  poems  by  John  Milton,  where 
Lucifer  shames  all  the  angels  with  the  majesty  of  his 
presence.  Be  careful,  daughter,  how  you  look  on  such 
faces,  save  with  averted  eyes,  for  they  are  dangerous  to 
the  soul." 

"  Oh,  but,  father,  his  smile — I  wish  you  could  have 
seen  that — it  was  like — yes,  father,  as  I  live,  it  was  like 
cousin  Abby's.  I  declare  this  was  why  it  brought  the 
heart  into  my  mouth — oh,  father !  if  you  had  only  seen 
him  smile,  you  would  never  talk  of  Lucifer  and  the  angels 
again.  Who  can  he  be  ?" 

"  Some  loitering  Indian,  no  doubt." 

"  No,  father,  no.  His  hair  curls ;  his  eyes  are  full  of 
fire,  not  grave  and  sullen ;  he  smiles  often,  and  his  fore 
head  is  white  as — yes,  as  my  cousin's — he  is  only  dressed 
a  little  Indian  fashion  ;  but  I  like  that  best  of  all." 

"And  you  heard  him  speak — that  might  have  guided 
vou  a  little.  Was  his  language  prompt  and  clear  ?" 

"  Not  quite  :  it  had  a  strange  accent." 


226  THE      MORNING     BIDE. 

"  Indian  ?" 

"  No,  no ;  but  something  that  made  his  broken  speech 
sweet  as  music." 

"  Strange,  very  strange  !"  muttered  the  minister,  with 
a  heaviness  at  the  heart  which  he  could  not  account  tor. 
"It  is  but  a  man  passing  like  a  shadow  across  my  path, 
and  yet  I  am  saddened  by  it." 

"  Strange,"  thought  Elizabeth,  from  whom  all  the  sur 
plus  life  had  departed,  leaving  her  subdued  and  thoughtful 
by  the  minister's  side — "  strange  !  it  was  but  a  hunter 
resting  upon  his  gun ;  yet  I  am  terrified  by  the  very 
beauty  of  his  face.  What  would  Norman  Lovel  say,  I 
wonder  ?  What  will  cousin  Abby  say  ?  Shall  I  tell  this 
among  the  other  wonderful  things  that  have  happened 
during  my  visit  to  Lady  Phipps's  ?  Ah,  me  !  if  I  had 
never  left  hdtaie,  how  much  happier  I  might  have  been  ! 
But  then  should  I  have  rode  so  lightly,  looked  so  pretty, 
or  learned  to  dance  minuets,  and  dress  like  a  lady  ?  Then 
would  Norman  ever  have  fancied  me  but  for  these  things  ? 
I  hope  I  shan't  be  sick  of  home,  and  pining  to  go  back 
again,  the  minute  I've  seen  the  dear  old  room  and  kissed 
them  all  round ;  that  would  break  poor  father's  heart. 
Well,  after  all,  I  should  like  to  know  who  this  stranger  is 
—an  Indian  indeed — he  looks  more  like  a  king." 

But  all  these  thoughts  were  soon  driven  out  of  the 
young  girl's  head  by  the  sight  of  objects  that  grew  more 
and  more  familiar,  as  they  neared  home.  Now  an  orchard, 
leavy  with  green  fruit,  crowded  up  to  the  wayside,  where 
fihe  had  gathered  harvest  apples :  then  a  gnarled  old 
peach  tree,  with  the  moss  of  age  creeping  over  its  trunk, 
hung  over  the  crook  of  a  fence,  and  drooped  a  healthy 
limb  or  two  over  the  turf  that  lined  the  highway  on  either 
side.  Here  was  a  thicket  of  blackberry  bushes,  where  she 


THE     MOKNING     BIDE.  227 

had  torn  her  dress  a  hundred  times ;  then  came  a  huge 
old  stump,  whose  decay  had  given  birth  to  clusters  of  red 
raspberry  vines,  which  she  had  plundered  time  out  of 
mind.  Then  came  a  young  elm,  bending  over  the  way 
side,  from  which  frost  grape-vines  fell  in  garlands,  that 
fluttered  out  into  the  sunshine  and  challenged  the  wind  at 
every  breath,  its  leaves  singing,  and  its  clusters  of  unripe 
fruit  quivering  over  the  wild  flowers  that  slept  dreamily 
below. 

At  last  the  house  came  in  sight,  with  its  great  shelter 
ing  trees,  its  little  square  windows,  and  its  rough  logs, 
overrun  with  honeysuckles  and  morning-glory  vines,  the 
most  picturesque  little  bird's-nest  of  a  place  you  ever  set 
eyes  upon.  She  began  to  hear  the  far-off  sweep  of  the  sea, 
and  feel  an  invigorating  saltness  in  the  air,  which  brought 
life  back  to  her  with  a  glow  of  pleasure  in  it. 

"Father,  father,  ride  on,  ride  on — do  strike  into  a 
canter.  Let's  have  a  run  for  it.  I  want  wings  to  get 
over  this  little  bit  of  road  with.  Oh,  father,  do  strike  out 
of  that  irritating  trot  for  once  !" 

No.  Samuel  Parris  loved  his  child  to  dotage,  but  even 
she  could  not  induce  him  to  bring  scandal  on  the  church 
by  an  undignified  movement.  Who  ever  saw  a  minister 
of  the  Presbyterian  church  cantering  toward  home  in 
front  of  his  own  meeting-house  door,  and  in  sight  of  the 
burying-grouml  where  he  had  laid  half  his  parishioners 
down  to  sleep  ?  Notwithstanding  all  her  impatience,  the 
minister  kept  on  at  his  old  measured  pace.  With  all  that 
he  most  loved  at  his  side,  he  felt  no  haste  to  get  home 
which  might  compare  with  the  breathless  eagerness  that 
gave  wings  to  the  heart  of  his  daughter. 


228          BACK     TO     THE     HOMESTEAD, 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

BACK    TO    THE    HOMESTEAD. 

ELIZABETH  broke  loose  at  last,  and  darted  off,  leaving 
the  man-servant  far  behind.  Across  the  greenwood  in  front 
of  the  meeting-house,  over  hillocks  and  between  frowning 
stumps,  littered  around  with  new-made  chips,  which  flew 
beneath  the  spurning  hoofs  of  her  horse,  she  rode,  her 
eyes  kindling,  and  her  heart  on  fire  with  the  joy  of  a 
first  return  home. 

Up  she  came  to  the  door-yard  fence,  cast  one  eager 
glance  around,  expecting  some  one  to  rush  forth  and  wel 
come  her;  then,  seeing  that  all  was  still,  she  sprang  from 
her  saddle  and  ran  into  the  house,  calling  out, 

"  Cousin  Abby  !  Abby  Williams,  I  say,  where  are  you  ? 
Don't  you  know  that  I've  got  home  ?  Abby  1  Abby  ! — 
Tituba  !  Tituba  !  Bear  me  !  where  has  everybody  gone  ?" 

She  stood  in  the  little  sitting-room,  looking  around  in 
breathless  expectation.  She  ran  into  the  kitchen  :  old 
Tituba  was  there,  kindling  the  fire. 

"  Tituba,  mammy  dear,  dear  old  mammy  1"  cried  the 
young  girl,  springing  forward,  dropping  upon  her  knees, 
and  hugging  the  old  woman"  with  all  her  might. 

"  Oh  1  did  I  surprise  you,  mammy  ?  Caught  you  nap 
ping,  ha  ?  How  glad  I  am  to  see  you,  dear,  blessed  old 
soul  !  Why  don't  you  speak  ?  Why  don't  you  kiss  me 
to  death  ?  There,  that  seems  something  like.  Now, 
where  is  cousin  Abby  ?  And  how  have  you  all  got  along 


BACK     TO     THE     HOMESTEAD.          229 

without  me  ?     And  where  is  the  fawn  ?     I've  got  a  new 
bell  for  him — and — and — " 

Here  the  warm-hearted  young  creature  burst  into  an 
April  storm  of  smiles  and  tears,  while  old  Tituba  untied 
her  stylish  bonnet,  and  took  off  her  riding-cape  with  a  sort 
of  shy  humility,  for  the  entire  love  of  nurse  and  child  had 
been  broken  up,  on  the  old  woman's  part,  by  the  confi 
dence  which  she  had  reposed  in  Abby  Williams,  during 
the  absence  of  her  young  mistress.  Somehow  the  old 
creature  felt  as  if  she  had  been  wronging  the  young  girl 
who  came  back  so  frankly  and  kindly  to  her  arms,  by  her 
conversation  that  night  with  her  cousin. 

"What  ails  you,  mammy  Tituba?  What  on  earth 
makes  you  look  everywhere  except  in  my  face  ?  Indeed 
you  don't  seem  half  glad  enough  to  see  me  !" 

"  Oh,  yes,  how  can  the  child  talk  so  !"  cried  the  old 
woman,  with  a  great  effort  at  self-control.  "  But  with  all 
these  fine  clothes  on,  and  that  bonnet ;  dear  me,  one 
hardly  knows  one's  own  child.  Then,  my  dear,  you've 
grown  so  proud  and  so  handsome,  it's  enough  to  make  an 
old  Indian  think  twice  before  she  dares  to  kiss  you,  rough 
and  hearty,  in  the  old  way." 

"  Poh — poh.  I'm  always  the  same  old  penny,  bright 
ened  up  a  little,  that's  all,"  said  Elizabeth,  blushing  crim 
son.  "  So  you  think  I  am  changed — improved  a  little," 
she  added,  glancing  down  at  herself  with  graceful  vanity. 
"What  will  cousin  Abby  think,  I  wonder?  Ob!  there 
she  is." 

Elizabeth  darted  forward,  and  threw  her  arms  around  the 
neck  of  Abigail  Williams,  so  blinded  by  the  joy  of  meeting 
her  old  playmate  again  that  she  did  not  observe  the  re 
straint  with  which  all  her  enthusiasm  was  met. 

At  the  time  of  their  first  parting,  three  months  before, 


230          BACK     TO     THE     HOMESTEAD. 

these  two  girls  had  never  possessed  an  unshared  thought; 
but  now  the  hearts  that  beat  against  each  other,  in  that 
close  embrace,  were  swelling  with  secrets  which  could 
never  be  thoroughly  understood.  In  that  little  time  child 
hood  had  been  left  behind,  and  each  had  learned  to  tread 
alone  the  path,  which,  at  this  point,  began,  with  them,  to 
diverge  into  the  wilderness  of  life. 

But  the  old  love  would  come  swelling  back,  spite  of  the 
thoughts  that  lav  in  its  channel,  like  rocks  cast  into  the 
bed  of  a  stream,  which  sparkles  all  the  more  from  the 
obstruction. 

"Abby— Elizabeth." 

How  different  were  the  voices  that  uttered  these  words ! 
Elizabeth's  was  loving  and  brimful  of  affection  ;  that  of 
Abby  Williams  answered  it  almost  with  pathos;  both 
wept,  one  bitterly,  the  other  with  quick  gushes  of  joy. 

"  Ob,  Abby,  Abby,  I  have  so  much  to  tell  you,"  cried 
Elizabeth,  blushing  crimson  under  the  tears  that  trembled 
on  her  cheek.  "  Don't  ask  me  what  it  is  yet,  only  wait  a 
little,  till  we  get  into  the  woods  together.  Come  along, 
here  is  father  just  getting  off  his  horse  at  the  door,  with 
Grov.  Phipps's  servant  doing  the  pompous  in  his  new  livery. 
Step  into  the  entry  way,  or  he  will  feel  disappointed,  as  I 
did,  at  not  seeing  your  face  peeping  out  through  the 
morning-glory  vines." 

Elizabeth  felt  the  heart,  which  bad  been  beating  strongly 
against  her  own,  recoil  with  a  sudden  shock,  as  she  men 
tioned  her  father ;  and  it  was  almost  by  force  that  she 
drew  her  <•<>•) -in  into  the  doorway  in  time  to  meet  the 
minister,  who  came  through  the  gate  with  his  usual 
hesitating  slowness,  and  held  out  his  hand,  gravely  smiling 
as  be  approached  his  niece. 

Her  hand  phook  like  an  asp^n.  ns  s*be  held  it  ont,  and 


BACK     TO     THE     HOMESTEAD.          231 

the  touch  was  cold  as  ice.  But  the  minister  simply 
said, 

"  Is  any  thing  ailing  you,  Abigail  ?"  and  passing  on,  be 
hung  his  hat  on  a  peg  in  the  wall,  and  placed  his  riding- 
whip  behind  the  door. 

With  a  sudden  impulse,  Abby  drew  her  cousin  out  on 
the  stepping-stone,  leaving  the  passage  open. 

"  Come,  come  into  the  woods,"  whispered  Elizabeth, 
clasping  her  cousin  round  the  waist,  and  drawing  her 
gently  along.  "I  want  to  get  into  the  shadows,  where 
we  can  talk  together." 

Abby  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  hurried  on,  more  eager 
to  leave  the  house  than  her  companion  ;  for  she  was  faint 
from  the  recoil  of  her  whole  nature  against  the  old  man, 
who  had  been  more  than  a  father  to  her.  Ready  to  flee 
anywhere  to  avoid  the  touch  of  that  hand  again,  she 
hurried  with  her  cousin  to  the  woods. 

So  the  two  sped  on,  across  the  meeting-house  green,  by 
the  tomb-stones  rising  from  the  tall  grass  behind  it,  and 
past  those  twin  graves  over  which  the  old  trees  bent  their 
whispering  boughs.  Elizabeth  xvould  have  turned  that 
way,  for  the  vines  were  quivering  with  dew-drops,  and  the 
periwinkles  trembled  like  cerulean  stars  among  them,  so 
deeply  did  the  shadows  lie  there  almost  till  noonday.  But 
Abby  hurried  on,  turning  her  eyes  resolutely  from  the  spot, 
and  almost  forcing  her  cousin  into  the  gloom  of  the  woods. 

There  was  a  ledge  of  rocks  piled  along  the  side  of  a 
ravine,  choked  up  by  dogwood  trees,  sassafras,  and  wild 
honeysuckles,  on  which  the  girls  had  loved  to  play  from 
childhood  up.  A  lofty  tulip  tree  sheltered  it,  and  above 
that  towered  a  hill-side,  clothed  with  great  hemlocks, 
through  which  the  sun  never  penetrated,  save  in  golden 
gleams  that  lost  themselves  in  the  topmost  boughs.  The 


232          BACK     TO     THE     HOMESTEAD. 

different  ledges  of  this  little  precipice  were  not  only  lined, 
but  absolutely  piled,  with  moss,  which  lay  beautifully 
thick  all  around.  On  one  shelf  it  lay  in  cushions,  green 
as  emerald,  and  soft  as  Genoa  velvet ;  then  another  species, 
bright  and  feathery  as  the  plumage  of  a  bird,  crept  over  a 
huge  old  log  that  lay  in  a  parallel  line  with  the  edge,  em 
broidering  it  with  green  lace-work,  till  there  was  a  wild 
wood  sofa  erected  by  this  simple  freak  of  nature,  more 
luxurious  than  the  couch  of  an  empress. 

"  See,  see,  how  far  the  moss  has  crept  since  we  were 
here  before,"  cried  Elizabeth,  throwing  herself  on  the  sofa. 
"  When  I  went  away,  that  end  of  the  log  was  bare ;  now 
every  inch  is  green.  See,  all  along  the  ledge  at  our  feet, 
the  buckthorn  moss  has  spread  into  a  crisp  carpet ;  and 
the  wild  columbines  have  grown  in  a  border  all  around  it. 
Why,  Lady  Phipps's  drawing-room  is  not  prettier." 

"Yes,"  said  Abby,  looking  vaguely  around.  "Every 
thing  has  grown  and  thrives  since  you  went  away,  Eliza 
beth  ;  but  the  place  does  not  look  so  beautiful  to  me,  as  it 
did  once  ;  the  loneliness  seems  dreary." 
'  "  Yes,  yes,  of  course  ;  then  I  was  away.  But  now  the 
woods  will  be  cheerful  as  spring  time  again.  Sit  down, 
cousin.  Why  will  you  stand  there,  tall  and  still,  like  a 
ghost,  when  the  moss  fleeces  are  so  soft  and  the  shadows 
so  cool  ?  It  is  pleasant  as  sunset  here.  One  almost  gets 
sleepy,  with  the  hum  of  the  bees  and  blue  flies.  Come, 
sit  close  by  me  :  I  feel  lonesome  without  your  arm  around 
my  neck,  cousin  Abby." 

Those  tones,  and  that  dear  old  name,  brought  quick 
tears  into  Abigail's  eyes.  She  drew  gently  to  the  side  of 
her  cousin,  and  sat  down.  As  Elizabeth  clasped  her 
waist,  the  bosom  beneath  her  arm  began  to  heave ;  and 
all  at  once  Abby  burst  into  a  great  fit  of  crying  :  the  first 


BACK     TO     THE     HOMESTEAD.          233 

absolute  storm  of  passion  that  Elizabeth  had  ever  seen 
her  yield  to. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Abby  dear  ?  What  are  you 
crying  for  ?  How  you  tremble  !  What  have  they  been 
doing  to  you,  while  I  was  away  ?  Don't,  pray,  don't 
cry  so  !" 

Abigail  checked  her  tears  as  suddenly  as  they  had  com 
menced  ;  and  clasping  her  hands  hard  for  a  single  instant, 
seemed  to  control  her  nerves  by  stern,  mental  force. 

"Don't  mind  me,"  she  said,  hoarsely.  "I  have  been 
alone  so  much — but  you  had  something  to  tell  me — about 
Lady  Phipps,  perhaps,  or  the  governor ;  of  course  they 
were  delighted  to  have  you  with  them  ;  come,  tell  me  all 
about  it;  one  gets  so  little  real  information  from  letters." 

"  Oh  !  I  could  not  write,  at  least  what  I  wished  to  tell 
you,  any  more  than  I  could  talk  it  all  over  in  broad  day 
light.  Besides,  one  must  see  a  rainbow  to  judge  how  its 
colors  rise  out  of  each  other ;  there  is  no  describing  it ; 
and  some  things,  that  one  knows  and  feels,  are  the  same. 
The  best  friend  you  have  must  guess  at  them." 

"  What  is  it  you  speak  of?"  questioned  Abby,  gradually 
withdrawing  herself  from  the  clasp  of  her  cousin's  arm. 
"  I  do  not  understand.  In  this  visit  to  Lady  Phipps, 
have  you  been  crushed  down  with  secrets  that  must  not 
be  talked  of  ?  Has  the  memory  of  your  mother  stalked 
forth  like  a  curse  to  haunt  you  ?" 

"  The  memory  of  my  mother,  the  young  creature  who 
died  when  I  was  first  laid  in  her  bosom  like  a  poor  little 
flower  broken  by  a  sudden  weight  of  dew,  as  I  have  often 
heard  my  father  say  ! — What  should  there  be  in  the 
memory  of  my  mother  which  you  and  I  cannot  talk 
about  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  said  Abigail,  vaguely.     "  Were  we  talking 


234  .»ACK     TO     THE     HOMESTEAD. 

of — our  mothers  ?  It  is  a  dreary  subject ;  let  us  think  of 
something  else.  God  help  us  ! — something  else,  Eliz 
abeth — the  woods  are  too  lonesome  for  talk  about  the 
dead.  You  were  about  to  tell  me  something." 

"  Yes  !  but  I  cannot  tell  it ;  your  voice  is  so  strange  ! 
You  look  afar  off,  as  if  talking  to  some  one  in  the  distance. 
I  can  neither  catch  your  eyes,  nor  feel  the  old  touch  of 
your  band.  Abigail  Williams,  I  am  afraid  of  you  !" 

The  low  laugh,  which  broke  from  Abigail's  lips,  was 
mournful  as  a  wail. 

"  There  it  is.  I  knew  it,  I  expected  it :  not  an  hour 
together,  and  she  fears  me  already." 

She  turned  abruptly,  drew  close  to  her  cousin's  side, 
and  stealing  both  arms  around  her,  murmured  in  a  voice 
of  ineffable  sadness, 

"  Don't,  Bessy — dear,  dear  Bessy,  don't  be  afraid  of  me. 
Is  it  not  enough  that  I  am  afraid  of  myself'/  Now,  tell 
me  what  this  thing  is  !  So  that  it  is  not  about  the  dead, 
I  can  listen  and  be  pleased." 

"About  the  dead  ?  Why,  Abby,  how  strangely  you 
talk  !  What  have  you  and  I  in  common  with  the  dead  ? 
The  sunshine  is  not  pleasanter  than  life  is  to  me  since, 
since — " 

"  Since  when,  Bessie  ?" 
"  Since  he  loved  me." 

A  strange  sort  of  wonder  crept  over  Abigail  Williams. 
She  looked  upon  her  cousin  with  vague  apprehension. 
The  word  love  was  a  new  thtog  to  her ;  it  had  scarcely 
yet  entered  into  her  dreamy  life.  Elizabeth  smiled  at  first 
amid  her  blushes,  but  as  Abby  kept  gazing  upon  her  with 
parted  lips  and  that  wonder  in  her  eyes,  her  lips  began  to 
tremble,  and  the  warm  color  ebbed  away  from  her  face. 
"I  forget,"  she  said,  deprecatingly,  "you  have  not 


BACK     TO     THE     HOMESTEAD.          235 

heard  any  thing  about  him.  I  could  not  write,  and  even 
my  father  knew  nothing  till  he  came  to  Boston  after  me. 
But  oh  !  if  you  could  see  him,  Abby  !  If  you  could  hear 
him  speak  ;  or  read  his  beautiful  poetry  that  he  writes ; 
it  would  not  seem  strange  that  I  love  him  so  much." 

"Then  you  have  been  treacherous  also?  You  love 
some  one  more  than  me  ?" 

"  Forgive  me,  forgive  me,"  pleaded  Elizabeth,  "  I  could 
not  help  it.  We  were  in  the  same  house — he  was  like  a 
son  to  Lady  Phipps." 

"Better  than  your  father,  perhaps,"  continued  Abby, 
pondering  over  this  new  subject  in  her  mind,  heedless  of 
the  tears  and  blushes  with  which  she  was  regarded.  "  I 
have  heard  of  such  things,  but  never  expected  them  to 
come  so  close.  So  you  love  some  one  better  than  us  all, 
Elizabeth  Parris  ?" 

"  Forgive  me,  dear  cousin  1     Why  are  you  so  angry  ?" 

"  Angry  ?  Oh  !  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  only  wonder 
how  any  one  can  look  forward,  when  the  dead  will  not 
rest — how  it  is  the  privilege  of  one  human  being  to  love, 
and  the  duty  of  another  to  hate  !" 

"  The  duty  of  another  to  hate  ! — why,  cousin,  there  is 
— there  can  be  no  such  duty.  God  is  love,  the  Bible  tells 
us  so  ;  and  oh  !  when  the  heart  is  full  of  this  blessed, 
blessed  feeling,  one  sees  him  everywhere.  Don't  talk  of 
hate,  it  is  a  new  word  between  us  two." 

Abigail  Williams  attempted  to  smile,  but  only  a  quiver 
of  the  pale  lips  followed  the  effort.  Still  she  grew  more 
composed,  and  gently  won  her  warm-hearted  cousin  back 
to  bright  thoughts  again,  by  a  few  questions. 

"  His  name  ?  Oh,  yes — his  name  is  Norman — Norman 
Lovel — he  is  the  private  secretary  of  Gov.  Phipps,  who 
treats  him  like  a  son  He  lives  in  the  house,  and  but  for 


236          BACK     10     THfc     HOMESTEAD. 

his  name  you  would  never  believe  that  he  was  in  no  way 
related  to  the  governor.  Still  he  is  only  a  stranger,  rec 
ommended  by  some  friend  in  London,  and  singular 
onough  don't  know  his  own  parents.  Never  saw  them,  or 
anybody  that  he  knew  was  related  to  him  in  his  whole 
life.  But  what  difference  does  that  make,  when  every 
body  else  almost  worships  him  ?" 

"And  you  among  the  rest  ?" 

"  I  most  of  all,"  answered  Elizabeth,  bathed  in  a  glow 
of  crimson,  from  the  white  forehead  to  the  heaving  bosom. 

"And  this  is  happiness,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Happiness  ?  That  is  what  seems  strange  to  me,  when 
life  is  full  of  glow,  and  I  can  hardly  breathe  from  the  rich 
swell  of  a  heart  that  seems  ready  to  break  with  joy,  an 
exquisite  pain  creeps  in,  and  I  know  by  it  that  happiness 
can  mount  no  farther  !" 

"But  there  must  be  a  cause  for  this  pain  I" 

"A  cause  ?  Yes  !  every  thing  must  have  a  cause,  I  dare 
say,  if  one  could  but  find  it  out.  I  only  know  that  the 
joy  was  perfect  till  that  storm  arose,  and  the  ship  came 
in  with  a  woman  on  board,  who  seemed  to  disturb  every 
thing  she  looked  upon.  Even  Lady  Phipps  never  seemed 
to  draw  a  deep  breath  while  she  was  in  the  house.  As 
for  me  !  Abby,  Abby,  you  don't  know  what  torment  is, 
till  you  have  given  your  whole  heart  to  one  person,  and 
see  another  stealing  him  away  from  you  !" 

"  This,"  said  Abby,  who  had  listened  with  thoughtful 
interest,  "this  is  the  feeling  they  call  jealousy,  I  suppose. 
Is  it  so  painful  ?" 

"  For  a  time,"  answered  Elizabeth,  turning  pale  with 
the  very  recollection  of  her  suffering,  "  it  seemed  as  if  I 
must  die.  Shame,  anger,  a  keen  fear  of  losing  him,  kept 
me  silent.  But  when  I  was  alone,  with  the  door  shut,  and 


BACK     TO     THE     HOMESTEAD.          287 

the  curtains  of  my  bed  drawn  close,  all  this  pride  and 
strength  gave  way  ;  my  brain  grew  hot ;  the  very  breath 
choked  me  as  it  rose  ;  I  could  neither  sleep  nor  rest,  but 
walked  the  room  all  night,  wondering  if  she  thought  of 
him  too,  if  he  were  watching  the  light  in  her  window,  or  if 
both  were  asleep  and  dreaming  of  each  other.  Sometimes 
I  saw  them  in  the  garden,  conversing  together  with  the 
deepest  interest ;  sometimes  they  sat  in  the  great  portico 
till  the  dark  crept  around  them  like  a  veil;  and  all  this 
time  I  was  overlooked  and  forgotten.  Once  in  a  while 
Norman  would  seem  to  remember  me  with  a  start,  and 
force  himself  to  say  a  few  kind  words  ;  but  there  was 
neither  depth  nor  earnestness  in  what  he  said  :  the  woman 
had  bewitched  him,  I  am  sure  of  it." 

"  Bewitched  ?  That  is  a  fearful  word,"  said  Abby, 
looking  around  with  a  wild  stare,  as  if  the  very  founda 
tions  of  her  life  had  been  disturbed  by  the  word  her 
cousin  used. 

"  Yes,  Abby,  I  solemnly  believe  she  was  a  witch  ;  for 
the  moment  she  was  gone  all  the  beauty  of  my  life  came 
back  ;  Norman  was  himself  again  ;  he  seemed  to  wake  up 
from  a  dream  and  wonder  what  he  had  been  about;  at 
first,  he  would  not  believe  how  much  I  suffered,  and  won 
dered  that  I  had  grown  thin,  and  that  blue  shadows  were 
creeping  under  my  eyes,  as  if  his  own  neglect  had  not 
been  the  cause ;  but  when  Lady  Phipps  told  him  how  it 
was — I  would  have  died  fifty  times  rather  than  let  him 
know — nothing  could  be  more  generous  than  his  sorrow, 
lie  begged  my  pardon  almost  on  his  knees.  There  was 
no  kind  look  or  sweet  word  that  he  did  not  coin  into  a 
more  loving  expression,  to  win  me  back  to  our  old  happi 
ness.'- 

"And  you  were  happy  then  ? — you  are  happy  now  ?" 


238          BACK     TO     THE     HOMESTEAD. 

said  Abby,  looking  wistfully  into  the  bright  face,  over 
which  smiles  and  blushes  came  and  went  like  gleams  of 
sunset  on  a  summer  cloud. 

"  Happy  ?  yes,  he  parted  with  me  so  kindly — he  was 
BO  earnest  to  make  me  forget  that  dangerous  woman,  who 
had  disappeared  from  among  us  like  a  ghost — he  seemed 
to  love  me  again  so  much  more  than  ever,  that  I  could 
not  help  being  happy.  Besides,  he  is  coming  down  to 
see  us.  I  have  told  him  all  about  you,  darling  cousin. 
Father  has  consented  that  in  a  year  or  two,  if  we  do  not 
change  our  minds,  that  is — " 

"  He  will  take  you  away  altogether ;  and  this  has  hap 
pened  while  I  was  ignorant  of  it  all.  Oh,  Elizabeth  !  how 
many  things  can  grow  up  to  divide  two  souls,  while  one 
of  the  little  wild-flowers  yonder  buds,  blossoms,  and  fades 
away  !" 

"But  no  souls  are  divided  here,  Abby!"  cried  the 
young  girl,  earnestly.  "  The  love  that  I  feel  for  you  and 
father  only  grows  broader  and  deeper  since  I  have  known 
him.  We  are  not  parted,  cousin." 

"  ]STot  by  love.      I  know  that !" 

"Not  at  all.  Look  at  me,  cousin  Abby  !  how  strangely 
you  are  peering  into  the  distance,  as  if  something  in  the 
gloom  drew  your  eyes  from  my  face  !  What  is  it  you  see, 
cousin  ?" 

Elizabeth  bent  forward,  and  looked  keenly  in  the 
direction  her  cousin's  eyes  had  taken.  Far  down  the 
hollow  she  saw  the  young  -hunter  whose  presence  had 
surprised  her  on  the  road  a  few  hours  before. 

"  Hush,  Abby  1  Don't  speak  yet ;  but  look  and  tell  me 
who  he  is  ?" 

As  she  spoke,  Elizabeth  leaned  forward  till  her  golden 
curls  took  the  wind  and  fluttered  out  like  sunbeams  on  the 


HACK.     TO     THE     HOMESTEAD.          239 

air.     The  man  saw  her,  turned  and  disappeared  among 
the  undergrowth  of  the  hollow. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  him  before  ?'?  questioned  Elizabeth 
of  her  cousin,  as  she  shrunk  back  with  a  sort  of  super 
stitious  dread,  for  the  man  had  vanished  like  a  phantom ; 
"  or  have  the  woods  become  haunted  since  I  went  away  ?" 

Abby  Williams  started  up  with  nervous  haste.  "  Come, 
come,  you  must  be  hungry  by  this  time  :  it  is  almost 
noon  ;  old  Tituba  will  be  waiting,  and  you  know  nothing 
makes  her  so  angry  as  leaving  her  Johnny-cake  to  be 
eaten  cold.  She  will  never  forgive  us." 

Elizabeth  sighed.  A  pang  of  disappointment  came 
across  her  sunny  nature.  Why  was  Abby  so  changed  ? 
How  had  it  happened  that  a  confession,  which  she  had 
shrunk  from  and  dreamed  over,  should  have  been  told  in 
that  bard,  common-place  fashion  ?  Why  were  the  sweet 
tidings  which  had  cost  her  so  much  agitation  received  so 
coldly  by  the  only  creature  who  had  never  till  then  felt  a 
thought  or  feeling  unshared  with  her? 

"Well,"  she  said,  «ml  her  bright  eyes  filled  as  she 
spoke,  wLile  a  laugh  that  hud  bitter  tones  in  it  rose  to 
her  lip,  "  I  did  nut  think  you  would  have  taken  all  this  so 
coldly.  But  never  mind  ;  as  you  say,  Tituba's  Johnny- 
cake  must  not  get  cold." 

With  a  slight  bound  she  reached  the  shelf  of  rock  below 
her,  and  hurried  away,  followed  by  Abigail  Williams,  who 
stopped  every  other  moment  to  look  anxiously  around,  but 
still  kept  near  her  cousin. 

"  There  he  is — I  say,  Abby — there  he  is  again,  moving 
through  that  dogwood  thicket,"  said  Elizabeth,  holding 
her  breath,  and  speaking  in  a  whisper. 

"  Be  quiet ;  it  ig  only  a  hunter  searching  for  deer  or 
wild  turkeys." 
15" 


240          THE     CHIEF     AND     THE     LADY. 

As  she  spoke,  Abigail  made  a  quick  signal  with  her 
hand,  which  sent  the  young  woodranger  into  covert 
again. 

"  Who  is  he  ?  What  is  the  reason  we  never  saw  him 
before  ?"  thought  Elizabeth,  as  she  moved  homeward ; 
but  the  silence  of  her  cousin  encouraged  no  questions,  and 
the  two  girls  reached  the  house  without  speaking  of  the 
stranger  again. 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

THE  CHIEF  AND  THE  LADY. 

SCARCELY  had  the  two  cousins  left  the  woods,  when, 
upon  the  very  path  they  had  trod,  appeared  Barbara 
Stafford,  the  woman  who  had  inquired  for  the  minister  at 
his  house  that  morning.  Immediately  after  breakfast  she 
had  wandered  into  the  open  air,  and,  after  lingering  around 
the  meeting-house  a  while,  went  into  the  forest.  The  hum 
of  insects,  and  the  rustle  of  leaves,  fell  soothingly  upon 
her,  and  with  a  dreamy  listlessness  she  moved  on,  sitting 
down  at  times  when  she  came  to  some  flower  or  shrub 
which  seemed  strange  or  curious ;  but  frequently  leaving 
it  half  examined,  and  moving  on  again  restlessly  search 
ing  for  something  else. 

At  last  she  came  out  on  the  ledge,  which  the  cousins 
had  just  left,  and  sighing  softly  as  she  crossed  the  carpet 
of  gray  moss,  sat  down  upon  the  rock  sofa  and  fell  into 
thought.  The  place  seemed  to  have  some  peculiar  fasci- 
pation  for  her,  for  she  grew  paler  and  paler  in  that  dim 


THE     CHIEF     AND     THE     LADY.          241 

religious  light,  giving  way  to  feelings  that  could  only  rise 
unchecked  in  the  profoundest  solitude.  At  last,  her  agi 
tation  became  so  great,  that  she  fell  forward  upon  the 
cushions  and  began  to  moan  faintly,  as  those  who  have 
lost  the  power  to  weep  express  pain,  when  it  becomes 
insupportable. 

As  she  remained  thus,  the  young  hunter,  who  had 
twice  appeared  before  the  cousins,  came  out  upon  the 
lower  shelf  of  the  rock,  and,  without  seeing  her,  threw 
himself  on  the  edge,  and  lay  still,  as  if  waiting  for  some 
one. 

The  sound  of  Barbara  Stafford's  voice  arrested  his  at 
tention.  He  arose,  clambered  softly  to  the  higher  shelf 
of  rock,  and  stood  a  moment,  leaning  on  his  gun,  regard 
ing  her  with  vague  thrills  of  agitation.  Though  he  could 
not  see  her  face,  the  mysterious  atmosphere  that  surrounds 
a  familiar  person  made  its  impression  upon  him,  and  he 
recognized  her  at  once. 

At  last,  oppressed  by  a  human  presence,  which,  even 
unseen  and  unheard,  will  make  itself  felt  to  a  delicately 
organized  person,  Barbara  lifted  her  head.  She  did  not 
speak,  but  her  lips  parted,  her  eyes  grew  large,  and  a  flash 
of  wild  astonishment  rushed  over  her  face. 

"  In  the  name  of  Heaven  what  is  this  ?"  she  cried  at 
last,  reaching  forth  her  hand,  as  if  she  doubted  that  the 
presence  was  real. 

A  convulsion  of  feeling  swept  over  the  young  man's 
face  ;  the  gun  dropped  from  his  hold,  and,  forced  to  his 
knees,  as  it  were  against  his  will,  he  seized  her  hand,  and 
pressed  it  to  his  lips  wildly,  madly,  then  cast  it  away, 
with  a  gesture  of  rage  at  himself,  for  a  weakness  of  which 
his  manhood  was  ashamed. 

Barbara  Stafford  had  no  power  to  repulse  this  frantic 


242  THE     CHIEF     AND     THE     LADY. 

homage.  She  had  but  just  begun  to  realize  that  he  was 
alive  and  before  her — that  it  was  his  hot  lips  that  touched 
her,  and  his  flashing  eyes  that  poured  their  fire  into  hers. 
Ttfe  band  he  had  dropped  fell  listlessly  by  her  side.  She 
sat  up,  regarding  him  haughtily. 

"  Philip  !" 

The  voice  was  stern  with  rebuke.  The  whiteness  of 
anger  settled  on  her  features. 

"Yes,"  said  the  young  man.  "It  is  Philip,  the  slave 
to  whom  you  opened  the  avenues  of  knowledge,  and  whose 
soul  you  tempted  from  its  strength  by  the  dainty  refine 
ments  of  civilization.  It  is  the  Bermuda  serf,  whom  you 
made  free  and  enslaved  again.  But  still  the  son  of  a 
king,  and  the  chief  of  a  brave  people.  Woman,  you 
dashed  the  shackles  from  these  limbs  only  to  gird  them 
around  my  soul ;  and  then  left  me  to  writhe  myself  to 
death,  a  double  serf,  and  a  double  slave  !" 

"  Philip,  you  are  mad — nay,  worse — you  are  ungrateful. 
Am  I  to  suffer  forever  for  those  impulses  of  compassion 
that  took  you  from  under  the  lash  of  a  slave-driver,  and 
helped  you  to  the  key  of  all  greatness — knowledge  ?  Am 
I  blamable  if  that  too  fiery  nature  would  not  be  content 
with  gratitude,  but,  having  gained  liberty,  arid  all  the 
privileges  of  free  manhood,  asked  that  which  his  benefac 
tress  could  not  give — which  it  was  presumption  to  seek  ?" 

"  A  wus  the  son  of  a  king,"  said  the  hunter,  proudly, 
"  the  only  son  of  a  brave  man,  and  a  woman  beautiful  as 
yourself,  a  woman  who  had  blood  in  her  veins  as  white 
and  pure  as  that  which  my  presence  has  just  frightened 
from  your  own  cheek.  Look  around  :  from  the  oceau  to 
the  mountains  every  thing  was  my  father's  till  the  people 
of  your  race  came,  like  a  pestilence,  across  the  sea,  and, 
more  by  cunning  and  hypocrisy  than  power,  wrested  bia 


THE     CHIEF     AND     THE    LADY.  243 

dominion  away,  and  drove  his  people  to  death  or  slavery. 
Lady,  there  was  no  presumption  in  the  thought,  when  the 
wronged  heir  of  Philip  of  Mount  Hope  offered  the  love  of 
a  free,  brave  man,  who  had  learned  both  how  to  think, 
and  how  to  act,  to  the  daughter  of — " 

"  Hush  !  I  charge  you,  hush  !"  cried  Barbara,  starting 
to  her  feet,  "  not  even  here  must  you  pronounce  that 
name — I  thought  myself  utterly  unknown.  If  I  have  ever 
been  good  to  you — if  it  was  a  kindness  when  I  won  you 
from  slavery,  by  tears  and  entreaties,  that  would  not  be 
refused — if  the  friendship  of  years,  sacrifices,  efforts,  and 
that  pure  affection  which  a  childless  mother  may  bestow 
on  the  young  man  whom  she  would  gladly  have  regarded 
as  a  son,  gives  me  any  claim  on  your  forbearance,  let  my 
secrecy  be  respected  !  I  am  weary,  wretched,  broken 
hearted  enough  already  :  do  not  add  to  the  misery  of  my 
condition  by  a  reckless  word,  or  an  unguarded  look !" 

Barbara  clasped  her  hands,  and  was  about  to  sink  to 
her  knees  in  pure  agitation  as  she  made  this  appeal. 

The  young  hunter  prevented  the  action  by  a  prompt 
movement,  and  fell  at  her  feet  with  an  impulse  of  gener 
ous  humility. 

"  Lady,  command  me  !  Do  not  entreat !  What  have 
I  done  that  you  should  rebuke  me  by  a  request  ?" 

Barbara  smiled,  and  touched  his  forehead  lightly  with 
her  hand.  Instantly,  a  soft  mist  dulled  the  fire  of  those 
splendid  eyes,  and  the  young  man  bowed  his  head, 
thrilled  to  the  heart  by  the  proud  magnetism  of  her  look. 

"Tell  me,  Philip,"  she  said,  very  gently,  "tell  me  how 
it  is  that  I  find  you  here,  in  a  place  so  full  of  danger. 
Why  come  again  to  the  lands  that  have  passed  from  the 
possession  of  your  people  forever — lands  that  are  swept 
away,  and  held  securely  in  the  grasp  of  civilization  ? 


244  THE     CHIEF     AND     THE    LADY. 

What  can  you  hope — what  can  you  expect,  by  this  mad 
return  ?" 

"  What  can  I  hope,  lady  ?  That  tho  soil  upon  which 
I  stand  will  still  be  mine.  What  do  I  expect  ?  That  my 
father's  people  may  be  gathered  together  from  the  swamps 
of  the  lowlands,  and  the  caves  of  the  mountains,  and, 
united  in  the  midst  of  their  old  hunting-grounds,  meet 
their  enemies  face  to  face,  and  fight  them  as  my  father  did 
— conquer  them,  as  he  would  have  done,  but  for  the  trai 
tors  in  his  bosom  ;  or  failing,  perish  like  him  !" 

"My  poor,  brave  Philip  !"  said  Barbara,  regarding  the 
youth  with  unutterable  compassion,  "what  men  could  do 
your  father  and  his  chiefs  essayed,  and  in  vain.  It  is  not 
fighting  man  to  man  here.  There  is  no  fair  combat  of 
human  strength  or  manly  intellect ;  but  you  combat  with 
destiny — that  grand,  cruel  thing,  which  comes  in  the  form 
of  civilization.  Ah,  Philip,  there  is  no  contending  against 
that." 

"  Then  let  me  die  with  the  people  who  call  me  king ; 
but  die  avenging  the  wrongs  that  have  driven  our  chiefs 
into  slavery,  and  left  our  tribes  nothing  but  basket-makers 
and  hunters  of  musk  rats  !"  cried  the  youth,  desperately. 
"Lady,  do  not  counsel  or  thwart  me  here  ;  the  blood  of 
two  races,  fiery  and  hot  with  a  sense  of  wrong,  urges  me 
on.  My  brain  aches  with  thought,  my  heart  beats  loudly 
in  its  hope  for  vengeance  on  the  men  who  slew  my  father, 
and  sought  to  starve  my  soul  down  to  contented  servitude. 
Neither  heart  nor  brain  w-ijl  be  argued  or  persuaded  into 
submission.  Beyond  this,  and  inspiring  it  all,  I  wait  for 
the  sad  scornfulness  of  that  smile  to  disappear.  When 
his  people  are  once  more  a  nation,  you  cannot  say  that  the 
son  of  Philip  of  Mount  Hope  was  presumptuous  in  loving 


you." 


THE     CHIEF     AND     THB     LADY.  245 

"And  is  this  wild  feeling  at  the  bottom  of  it  all  ?"  said 
Barbara,  in  a  voice  full  of  regret. 

"  It  has  brought  me  across  the  ocean,  lurking  like  a 
hound  in  the  hold  of  the  same  vessel  with  yourself — it 
has  filled  me  with  ambition  to  rebuild  the  fortunes  of  a 
down-trodden  people.  When  these  brave  men  they  call 
savages  are  linked  in  one  common  band  and  common 
cause — like  the  chieftains  of  Scotland,  each  a  sovereign 
lord  in  himself — we  shall  meet  these  wily  white  men,  and 
conquer  back  the  forests  they  have  wrested  from  us. 
Hitherto  their  brain-craft  has  more  than  overmatched  our 
strong  arms ;  but  I  have  learned  something  of  their  cow 
ard  wisdom  in  the  lands  to  which  you  have  sent  me.  If 
I  studied  law  and  military  science  in  England,  it  was  that 
I  might  learn  the  art  by  which  men  rule  their  fellow- 
men.  I  have  used  the  means  you  gave  me  to  learn  that 
power  of  mind  which  sways  multitudes  more  surely  than 
the  stout  arm  or  certain  eye.  Lady,  I  have,  in  my  search 
for  the  great  secret  by  which  your  people  stole  away  the 
Indian  birthright,  learned  to  despise  our  conquerors. 
But  not  you  !  not  you  !  My  gratitude  lifted  you  out  from 
among  them  all.  It  was  because  my  soul  thanked  you  so 
tenderly  that  it  lost  itself  in  love." 

"Ah,  Philip,"  said  the  lady,  "  but  for  this  madness  how- 
great  you  might  become  I" 

"  Say  not  so.  All  the  thirst  for  greatness  that  I  have 
springs  out  of  the  mighty  love  that  you  will  not  listen  to," 
answered  the  young  man. 

"  Because  it  is  madness — insanity.  I  say  nothing  of 
the  barriers  which  rank  and  civilization  build  up  like  a 
wall  between  us  two  ;  but  nature  herself  should  chill  such 
feelings  in  their  birth.  Why,  young  man,  I  had  learned 


246  THE     CHIEF     AND     THE     LADY. 

to  hope  and  sufler,  as  woman  can  alone  hope  and  suffer, 
before  you  were  born." 

"  Be  it  so — I  care  not.  Souls  made  for  eternity  are 
neither  brightened  nor  dulled  by  a  few  years  of  time.  I 
see  only  what  is  grand  and  beautiful  in  the  only  woman 
of  her  race  that  this  heart  ever  deemed  worthy  of  a  war 
rior's  love." 

The  young  man  towered  proudly  upward  as  he  spoka. 
"'The  gorgeous  robe  which  he  had  assumed  with  his 
savage  state,  shook  and  rattled  as  he  gathered  it  over  his 
chest.  The  lady  gazed  upon  him  with  irresistible  ad 
miration.  She  might  rebuke  his  love,  and  shrink  with 
womanly  delicacy  from  any  fulfilment  of  his  hopes,  which, 
in  truth,  seemed  to  outrage  the  august  dignity  of  her 
years.  But  there  was  a  grandeur  in  the  young  man  that 
forced  her  to  respect  him — a  truthfulness  which  enlisted 
all  her  sympathies. 

"  Philip,"  she  said,  extending  her  hand,  which  he  kissed 
reverently,  as  if  she  had  been  an  empress,  and  that  moss 
couch  her  throne,  "  I  will  not  bid  you  God-speed  in  the 
grand,  but  I  think  hopeless,  task  you  have  undertaken, 
much  as  I  deem  you  wronged  ;  because  my  judgment, 
calmer  than  yours,  tells  me  how  surely  civilization  must 
sweep  the  darkness  of  barbarism  before  it.  The  virgin 
noil  of  this  new  world  is  required  for  the  growth  of  food 
for  the  surplus  population  which  is  now  sweeping  acros^ 
the  Atlantic  in  a  slow  but  steady  tide  from  the  old 
world.  That  which  civilization  demands  it  will  attain, 
llope  not  to  match  the  bravery  of  your  warriors  against 
the  keen  energy  of  the  Anglo-Saxon.  Where  be  treads, 
opposition,  nay,  justice  itself,  sways  backward.  Cool, 
resolute,  sometimes  unscrupulous,  he  never  recedes,  but 
swiftly  as  time  advances  so  does  he.  Look  along  the 


THE     CHIEF     AND     THE     LADY.  247 

coast  already  has  be  hewn  down  the  mighty  forest,  and 
let  the  sunshine  in  to  ripen  the  grain  planted  within 
sight  of  your  very  wigwams.  Already  are  cities  and 
towns  sending  up  their  spires  to  heaven.  Every  court 
house,  and  every  place  of  worship  thus  marked  in  the 
landscape,  is  a  barrier  stronger  than  any  military  fortress, 
against  the  idea  of  Indian  sovereignty  that  now  heave* 
that  chest,  and  kindles  those  eyes." 

The  young  man's  lip  curved,  and  his  eyes  shone  as  he 
answered :  - 

"  Lady,  forgive  me ;  but  you  speak  like  a  woman, 
whose  destiny  is  to  think,  not  to  act.  But  in  my  heart 
the  barbarism  out  of  which  true  heroes  spring,  and  the 
Anglo-Saxon  blood  of  which  you  boast,  meet  and  swell 
together  into  one  mighty  resolve.  We  will  first  conquer 
our  foes  ;  then  wrest  from  them  the  secrets  that  make  the 
soil  teem  with  food  and  beauty  for  their  use.  While  the 
earth  rolls,  and  the  sun  shines,  brave  men  of  all  nations 
will  seek  the  war-path ;  the  church  spires  and  halls  of 
justice  will  never  prevent  that.  But,  like  the  white  man, 
we  will  plant  corn  where  the  earth  has  been  made  richest 
with  human  blood,  and  let  wild  flowers  start  into  bloom 
above  the  graves  we  have  filled  to  loathing  with  dead 
foes. " 

"  But  if  you  are  ready  to  follow  the  lead  of  our  people 
so  far,"  said  Barbara,  "  why  not  join  them  in  amity  now  ?" 

"  Because  the  Indian  would  be  master  of  the  soil  he 
plants,  and  the  game  he  shoots.  King  Philip  of  Mount 
Hope  acknowledged  no  peer.  They  slew  him,  but  he 
filled  a  monarch's  grave.  Has  the  blood  of  a  white 
woman,  martyred  for  her  faith,  made  his  son  so  weak  that 
he  needs  Anglo-Saxon  adventurers  and  dissatisfied  clergy 
men  to  .share  autbor'.Tf  with  him?'' 


248  THE     CHIEF    AND     THE     LADY. 

Barbara  arose,  and  reached  forth  her  hand. 

"  Farewell !"  she  said,  with  sweet  mournfulness.  "  That 
I  meet  you  here  and  thus,  is  a  new  pang  and  a  new  sor 
row.  I  had  hoped  to  find  you  content  and  happy,  on  my 
return  to  Europe  ;  but  alas,  these  awful  forests  seem  to 
swallow  up  every  thing  upon  which  my  poor  heart  leaned. 
God  help  me,  for  now  I  feel  more  alone  than  ever.  Ah, 
Philip,  if  you  would  only  be  persuaded  to  recross  the  At 
lantic — there  alone  you  are  safe." 

"  Lady,  when  I  am  indeed  a  chief,  and  my  brave  war 
riors  have  turned  the  churches  you  boast  of  into  wigwams, 
I  will  cross  the  sea,  and  ask  again  if  great  deeds  and  un 
dying  love  may  claim  at  least  a  patient  hearing." 

Barbara  shook  her  head. 

"  Not  with  that  hope — not  with  such  intent,"  she 
answered,  gravely ;  "  for  it  can  never  be.  Now,  farewell." 

"Adieu,  but  not  forever,"  answered  the  young  man, 
bending  low  over  the  hand  she  offered.  "  These  are  un 
safe  times,  and  with  all  your  pride  there  will  come  a 
season  when  you  will  have  need  of  me.  The  spirit  which 
hunted  Anna  Hutchinson  into  the  forest,  and  drove  my 
mother  out  to  starve,  is  not  yet  appeased.  New  victims 
will  be  wanted.  The  great  Anglo-Saxon  mind  that  you 
speak  of  is,  after  all,  but  slavish  and  half  developed — the 
outgrowth  of  that  very  tyranny  of  opinion  it  fled  to  avoid. 
Those  who  brave  martyrdom  ever  are  foremost  in  persecu 
tion.  Lady,  beware  of  these  new  people.  Nay,  I  had 
better  say,  take  no  heed  ;  for  1^  who,  hating  slavery,  glory 
in  being  your  slave,  will  guard  you  well." 

With  these  words  the  youth  snatched  up  his  rifle, 
pointed  out  a  footpath,  which  Barbara  turned  into,  and 
both  disappeared  in  opposite  directions. 


WORKING     OF    THE     EVIL     SPELL.      249 


CHAPTER  XXYIIL 

WORKING   OF   THE   EVIL   SPELL. 

ELIZABETH  PARRIS  was  in  her  own  little  chamber,  in 
the  gable  end  of  her  father's  log  house  ;  the  window  looked 
out  toward  the  sea,  and  a  beautiful  glow  of  sunshine  lay 
upon  the  pasture  land  which  stretched  between  it  and  the 
shore,  turning  the  water  to  sparkling  sapphires,  and  the 
green  of  the  land  to  a  richer  emerald  tint,  as  the  day  drew 
toward  its  noon. 

There  was  something  very  pretty  and  picturesque  about 
Elizabeth's  room.  Though  a  tiny  little  place  compared  to 
that  she  had  just  left  in  the  gubernatorial  mansion,  it 
possessed  a  score  of  dainty  trifles,  that,  at  first  sight, 
awoke  in  her  heart  a  sweet  home-feeling,  which  went  rip 
pling  like  a  trill  of  music  through  her  whole  being.  So 
she  went  from  object  to  object,  arranging  one,  displacing 
another,  and  fluttering  to  and  fro  like  a  bird  that  returns 
to  its  cage,  after  a  long,  pleasant  flight  in  the  open  air. 

"Ah,  how  white  and  nice  every  thing  is  !"  she  said,  ad 
dressing  old  Tituba,  who  stood  by  the  door,  watching  her 
with  a  glow  of  satisfaction  in  her  sharp,  black  eyes. 
."This  curtain  is  soft  and  pure  as  the  clouds  that  hang 
over  the  sea  out  yonder.  As  for  the  bed,  I  shouldn't 
think  it  had  been  slept  in  since  I  went  away,  the  pillow 
cases  shine  like  snow  crust." 

"  The  bed  hasn't  been  slept  in  since  we  knew  you  were 
coming  right  away  home,  child,"  said  old  Tituba,  casting 
a  well-pleased  look  on  the  pillow-cases,  polished  by  her 


250       WORKING     OK     THE     EVIL     SPELL. 

own  deftly  urged  smoothing-irons.  "I  put  everything 
on  fresh,  yesterday  :  all  for  yourself." 

"  Not  used,  Tituba,  not  used  !  Then  where  has  cousin 
Abby  slept  ?  Where  did  she  sleep  last  night  ?" 

"  She's  gone  into  the  back  room,  at  t'other  end  of  the 
house;  the  night  we  heard,  you  were  coming  "she  went  in 
there." 

"  What  ?  The  store-room,  where  you  kept  herbs  and 
dried  apples,  and  all  sorts  of  things — where  the  old  chest 
of  drawers  stands  ?  What  does  this  mean,  Tituba  ?" 

"  I  s'pose  Abby  was  lonesome." 

"Lonesome  here,  in  this  bright  room,  with  a  glow 
from  the  water  breaking  in  whenever  there  is  sunshine, 
and  the  first  roses  always  peeping  through  that  window, 
with  dew  on  the  leaves  ? — Tituba,  you  must  be  dream 
ing  !  How  could  Abby  tire  of  our  own  room,  even  if  I 
was  away  ?  But  then,  just  as  I  was  sure  to  come  back — 
I  can't  understand  it,  Tituba  !" 

"  Come  and  see,"  said  Tituba,  crossing  a  little  span  of 
open  garret,  and  unclosing  a  door  which  led  to  the  oppo 
site  gable.  "  Sure  as  the  world,  this  is  Abby  Williams's 
room  now." 

Elizabeth  stepped  into  the  little  chamber.  It  was  sim 
ilar  in  size  to  the  one  she  had  just  left ;  but  not  enclosed, 
Uke  that,  with  wooden  panels  of  a  light,  cheerful  color,  or 
floored  with  fine  boards  scoured  white  by  the  constant 
exercise  of  old  Tituba's  scrubbing-cloth.  But  in  this  still, 
neglected  chamber,  the  rafter»_  were  dismally  exposed, 
crevices  of  light  broke  through  the  shingles  here  and  there, 
while  the  rough  floor  was  full  of  knot-holes,  and  shook 
loosely  under  the  tread  as  it  was  passed  over. 

A  low  trundle  bed,  covered  with  a  blue-and-white  yarn 
quilt,  stood  in  a  corner,  close  under  the  slope  of  the  roof. 


WORKING     OF     THE     EVIL     SPELL.       251 

A  single  chair  was  near  it,  and  close  by  the  door  a  tall 
chest  of  drawers  towered  into  the  roof.  This  was  all  the 
furniture  visible.  That  the  room  had  been  used  for  rude 
household  purposes  formerly,  was  very  evident ;  for  oppo 
site  the  bed,  clusters  of  pennyroyal,  sage,  and  coriander, 
were  still  hanging  to  the  rafters  ;  and  on  each  side  of  the 
windows  festoons  of  dried  apples  and  rings  of  pumpkins 
fell,  like  a  drapery,  from  roof  to  floor,  but  half  concealing 
the  rough  logs  underneath.  The  windows  looked  toward 
the  grave-yard,  and  beyond  that  into  the  deep,  dark 
forest. 

Elizabeth  gazed  around  with  mingled  surprise  and  dis 
tress.  After  her  beautiful  city  life,  this  homely  apartment 
seemed  full  of  insupportable  gloom. 

"And  does  Abby  mean  to  sleep  here  ?  She  who  loved 
our  own  pretty  room  so  much  ?  What  does  it  all  mean  ? 
Do  tell  me,  old  Tituba,  what  does  it  mean  ?" 

Tituba  shook  her  head. 

"What  does  it  mean  ?"  persisted  the  young  lady,  with 
a  burst  of  her  natural  impatience.  "  I  want  to  understand 
all  about  it  1" 

That  moment  the  door  opened,  and  Abby  Williams  camo 
in,  looking  pale  and  harassed. 

"  What  is  all  this  about  ?"  cried  Elizabeth,  turning  upon 
her  cousin,  with  a  burst  of  indignant  affection.  "  I  come 
back,  Abby  Williams,  to  find  our  dear  old  room  white  and 
cold  as  a  snow  driff>—  not  a  flower  in  the  glasses — not  even 
a  branch  of  pine  or  hemlock  in  the  fire-place — and  worst 
of  all,  the  bed  so  smooth  that  it  looks  as  if  no  one  ever 
slept  in  it,  or  ought  to  sleep  iu  it,  without  being  chilled  to 
death.  Why  have  you  left  our  pretty  room,  Abby  Wil 
liams  ?  the  chamber  you  and  I  have  slept  in  sitice  they 
took  us  from  the  same  cradle ;  left  it,  too,  for  this  dreary 


252       WORKING     OF     THE     EVIL     SPELL. 

corner,  just  as  I  was  coming  home  so  happy,  so  very, 
very  happy,  at  the  thoughts  of — of — oh  !  Abby,  dear,  dear 
Abby,  what  has  come  over  you  since  I  have  been  away?" 

Abby  Williams  stood  leaning  against  the  chest  of 
drawers.  She  looked  sad  and  weary,  rather  than  touched, 
or  excited,  by  her  cousin's  almost  passionate  appeal. 

"  I  came  here,"  she  said,  gently,  "  because,  since  you 
went  away,  Elizabeth,  I  have  learned  to  be  alone.  Il 
seems  unnatural  to  go  back  into  the  old  life  now :  your 
heart  is  full  of  its  own  joys.  But  mine — you  see  I  am 
fond  of  loneliness,  and  that  is  why  we  cannot  sleep  to 
gether  any  more." 

Elizabeth's  blue  eyes  filled  with  angry  tears  ;  her  fair 
face  flushed,  and  turned  pale,  and  then  broke  into  one  of 
those  heavenly  smiles  that  seemed  bright  enough  to  win 
an  angel  from  his  place  in  paradise.  She  went  up  to  her 
cousin,  and  flung  one  arm  over  her  shoulder. 

"  Oh,  I  see  how  it  is,"  she  cried,  turning  the  sad  face 
toward  her  with  a  gentle  pat  of  the  hand  :  "  she  is  jealous 
that  I  shall  think  of  somebody  else  now,  and  not  all  the 
day  and  night  long  of  her,  as  we  used  to  think  of  each 
other.  I  know  what  the  feeling  is,  Abby  darling,  and 
would  rather  die  than  give  it  to  you.  But  then  you  are 
BO  wrong  1  This  love — don't  stare,  old  Tituba — indeed 
I  love  some  one,  very,  very  much — }Tou  cross-looking  old 
thing — and  that  very  love  gives  warmth  and  breadth  to 
all  the  dear  old  household  feelings,  that  nothing  ever  could 
crowd  from  my  heart,  just  as  a  "good  mother  loves  all  her 
children,  better  and  better  for  every  new  baby.  There 
new,  don't  be  jealous,  cousin  1" 

"  I  am  not  jealous,  Elizabeth  Parris,"  answered  Abby, 
oppressed  by  the  caressing  tenderness  of  the  young  girl, 
"  only  sad,  and  in  love  with  my  own  company.  When 


WORKING     OF     THE     EVIL    SPELL.       253 

two  girls  like  us  are  once  separated,  it  is  not  so  easy  to 
fall  back  into  the  old  ways." 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  this  is  jealousy,  nothing  else.  But  I 
do  love  you  so  much,  Abby  Williams,  cross  as  you  are ; 
you  don't  know  how  my  heart  leaped,  as  I  came  in  sight 
of  the  house ;  I  wanted  to  fly,  to  kiss  you,  like  this,  a 
thousand,  thousand  times.  There — there." 

Elizabeth  interrupted  herself,  pressing  kiss  after  kiss  on 
the  lips,  forehead  and  hair  of  her  cousin,  who  shrunk  and 
grew  pallid  in  her  embrace,  as  if  those  warm  caresses  had 
poison  in  them. 

"  Why,  Abby,  you  do  not  kiss  me  back — you  are  trying 
to  get  away — is  it  because  you  do  not  love  me  any  longer 
—is  it  really  that  ?" 

Elizabeth  drew  back,  searching  her  cousin's  face  with 
reproachful  eyes,  while  Abby  turned  away  sullenly. 

"  This  is  hard,  very  hard !"  murmured  Elizabeth, 
choking  back  the  sobs  that  struggled  in  her  throat.  "  I 
am  home  again,  ray — my  heart  brimful  of  joy,  and  no 
one  seems  to  care  for  it ;  even  old  Tituba  stands  looking  at 
me,  as  if  she  expected  to  be  hanged,  and  I  had  the  rope 
somewhere  about  me.  What  have  I  done,  or  left  undone, 
that  my  cousin  should  hate  me  so  ?" 

Abigail  muttered  something  beneath  her  breath.  It 
was  that  fragment  of  Scripture,  which  speaks  of  children 
inheriting  the  sins  of  their  parents.  The  poor  girl  did 
not  remember  that  endurance  and  atonement  make  up  the 
duty  of  this  fell  inheritance,  not  vengeance.  But  her 
whole  being  was  in  commotion.  She  began  to  look  upon 
herself  as  an  avenger,  and  this  iron  repulse  of  her  cousin 
was  her  first  step  in  the  gloomy  path  which  seemed  the 
only  one  she  could  ever  tread. 

"  What  were  you   saying,  Abigail  ?"   inquired   Eliza- 


254      WORKING     OF     T  il  E     K  V  I  L     SPELL. 

beth,  softenei  with  what  she  thought  a  relenting 
murmur. 

"Nothing.  I  did  not  speak,"  said  Abby,  moving  to 
ward  the  window,  and  looking  out. 

Elizabeth  also  looked  out :  her  glance  fell  on  the  out 
skirts  of  the  graveyard,  along  which  a  female  figure  was 
moving  rapidly  toward  the  house. 

Elizabeth  caught  her  breath.  Abigail  turned  her  eyes, 
that  instant,  and  saw  the  change  that  came,  like  a  storm, 
over  that  bright  face. 

"  She  here  !"  said  Elizabeth,  casting  suspicious  glances 
at  Abby  and  old  Tituba.  "  She  here  !  Then  I  understand 
it  all.  She  is  the  malignant  witch  that  prowls  forever 
along  my  path,  turning  every  one  against  me.  Abby 
Williams,  you  saw  Barbara  Stafford  before  I  came 
home  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Abby,  vaguely,  "  I  saw  her ;  she  is  a 
strange,  sweet  woman,  full  of  soothing,  rich  in  all  that 
gives  tranquillity." 

"It  is  her  doings!"  exclaimed  Elizabeth,  passionately. 
"  This  woman  intrigues  forever  against  me.  I  say  again, 
Abigail  Williams,  and  you,  old  Tituba,  this  woman, 
Barbara  Stafford,  is  my  enemy  !" 

Elizabeth  was  white  and  stern,  as  she  uttered  this 
denunciation.  Every  feature  bore  conviction  that  she 
solemnly  believed  what  she  was  saying. 

Old  Tituba  cowered  down  in  a  corner  of  the  room, 
knitting  her  hands  together-  in  a  paroxysm  of  nervous 
dread,  for  the  sight  of  her  child's  distress  made  a  coward 
of  her.  Even  Abby,  whose  soul  was  full  of  a  tiouble 
more  harrassing  than  superstition,  felt  a  shudder  creep 
through  her  frame,  and  a  strange,  intangible  dread 
possessed  her.  She  almost  thought  her  cousin  mad. 


WORKING      OF     THE     EVIL     SPELL.      255 

"  See  !  see  !"  cried  Elizabeth,  pointing  through  the 
window,  "  that  is  my  father ;  she  is  speaking  with  him — 
she  dares  to  touch  him — she  turns — he  walks  by  her  side 
— he  stoops  his  head  to  listen.  Oh  I  my  God,  save  him 
from  her  subtle  power ;  I  cannot  move,  I  cannot  run,  to 
warn  him  :  the  very  sight  of  the  evil  woman  takes  the 
strength  from  my  limbs  !" 

A  sudden  faintness  seized  upon  the  young  girl,  as  she 
spoke.  She  began  to  tremble  violently,  and  crept  away 
to  her  own  chamber,  moaning  as  she  went.  The  change 
in  her  cousin,  the  shock  of  Barbara  Stafford's  sudden 
presence,  the  excitement  in  which  she  had  been  living, 
recoiled  upon  her  all  at  once,  and  she  was  seriously  ill. 

For  a  little  time  she  lay  writhing  upon  the  snowy  bed, 
which  had  seemed  so  cold  to  her  a  few  moments  before. 
Sorrow,  or  any  kind  of  anxiety,  was  so  entirely  new  to 
her,  that  she  wrestled  all  her  strength  away  with  the  first 
encounter. 

Old  Tituba  came  into  the  room  with  a  bowl  of  herb-tea, 
which  the  young  girl  strove  to  drink ;  but  the  first  drop 
was  met  with  a  hysterical  swell  of  the  throat,  and  she 
pushed  the  bowl  away,  exclaiming,  "  I  cannot  swallow  1 
I  cannot  swallow  !" 

Old  Tituba  stood  by  the  bed,  grasping  the  bowl  in  her 
little,  brown  hands,  terrified  by  a  burst  of  feeling  which 
convulsed  the  slight  form  before  her  with  strange  throes. 

She  possessed  no  skill  which  could  reach  or  even  under 
stand  a  paroxysm  like  this,  for  in  those  days  the  hysterical 
affections  that  spring  from  over-excitement  and  ill-regu 
lated  tempers,  had  not  reached  the  dignity  of  a  fashion 
able  disease. 

Abby  Williams  did  not  enter  the  chamber.      She  heard 

these  moans  and  sobs  with  forced  indifference.     With  the 
16 


25(5      WO  BEING     OF     THE     EVIL     SPELL. 

thoughts  of  the  constable's  lash  across  the  white  shoulders 
of  her  mother,  and  the  Indian  tomahawk  mercifully 
buried  in  the  broad  forehead  of  her  grandame,  Anna 
Hutchinson,  she  had  no  sympathy  to  cast  away  on  the 
causeless  moans  of  a  young  girl.  To  her  they  seemed 
trivial  and  mocking.  With  mighty  wrongs  like  those  in 
*he  past,  what  right  had  any  one  to  moan  over  the 
capricious  rise  and  flow  of  mere  household  affection  ? 

Under  the  knowledge  of  a  great  wrong,  Ab^-y  Williams 
stifled  the  tender  impulses  of  a  heart  naturally  full  of 
human  goodness.  She  had  learned  to  think  revenge  a 
solemn  obligation.  Was  not  this  young  creature  writhing 
nnder  the  first  recoil  of  her  affections,  the  child  of  her 
mother's  judge  ?  Was  not  she,  Abigail  Williams,  the 
creature  of  her  enemies'  bounty  ?  From  the  cradle  up, 
had  she  not  received  her  daily  bread  from  the  hand  which 
placed  her  mother  beneath  the  lash  ? 

These  thoughts  froze  all  compassion  in  her  heart ;  but 
ehe  could  not  listen  to  the  sobs  that  broke  from  that  room 
without  a  sensation  of  terrible  regret  for  the  love  that  had 
grown  so  icy  in  her  bosom.  In  the  grasp  of  that  iron 
destiny,  her  poor  heart,  with  a  thousand  kind  impulses 
fluttering  at  the  core,  trembled  to  free  itself,  but  had  no 
power.  A  wall  of  granite  seemed  built  up  between  her 
and  the  young  creature  who  had  once  been  her  second 
life.  So,  stupefied  and  locked  up  in  the  iron  destiny 
before  her,  she  eat  down  in  the  open  garret,  and  waited 
within  hearing  of  her  cousin's  sobs. 


ASKING     FOR     SHELTER.  257 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

ASKING     FOR     SHELTER. 

As  Abigail  Williams  sat  upon  a  wooden  box,  with  ooth 
hands  locked  over  her  knees,  holding  herself,  body  and 
soul,  as  it  were,  in  a  vice,  the  chamber  door  opened,  and 
Elizabeth  came  out.  Her  hair  was  disordered,  and  her 
face  flashed  with  weeping ;  but  she  walked  with  a  gesture 
of  resolve,  and  descended  to  the  lower  part  of  the  house 
in  quick  haste. 

The  sitting-room  was  empty,  but  through  the  window 
she  saw  her  father,  standing  with  Barbara  Stafford.  Th« 
woman  was  talking  earnestly,  eir'~rcing  what  she  said, 
now  and  then,  with  a  gentle  motion  of  the  hand. 

Samuel  Parris  was  looking  in  her  face  with  a  long- 
fixed  gaze.  His  heart  had  not  been  so  moved  by  a 
human  voice  since  the  day  when  the  young  wife,  whD  lay 
close  in  sight,  had  turned  from  his  embrace  to  bless  her 
babe  and  die. 

There  was  something  in  Barbara's  look,  or  voice,  that 
troubled  all  the  deep  waters  of  his  memory,  and  yet  she 
was  in  no  one  thing  like  the  fair  young  creature  lost  to 
him  so  long  ago. 

Parris  was  speaking  as  his  daughter  came  up.  Almost 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  did  not  take  a  step  to  meet 
the  idol  of  his  home,  as  she  approached  ;  but  kept  on  with 
the  invitation  he  was  giving. 

"  Surely,  we  will  find  you  food  and  shelter,  so  long  as 
you  may  require  either,"  he  was  saying ;  "  we  are  a  simple 


253  ASKING     FOR     SHELTER. 

family,  and  live  as  becomoth  a  servant  of  the  Most  High, 
taking  God's  gifts  in  frugal  thankfulness.  You  have, 
doubtless,  been  used  to  more  sumptuous  fare,  lady,  and  a 
statelier  roof;  but  in  my  poor  house  you  will  find  peace 
and  household  love,  which  is  better  than  cups  of  gold  and 
trenchers  of  silver.  Sojourn  with  us,  then,  so  long  as  it 
pleases  you.  See,  here  comes  my  daughter,  who  shall 
speak  our  welcome  better  than  I  can — who,  to  own  the 
truth,  am  somewhat  unused  to  hospitable  '  courtesies. 
Elizabeth,  my  child,  this  lady  will  be  our  guest  a  while, 
welcome  her  as  beseemeth  a  lady  of  condition,  for  such 
make  sure  she  is." 

When  Elizabeth  came  up,  her  cheek  was  on  fire,  and 
her  eyes  sparkled  with  some  passionate  resolve ;  but  as 
she  turned  from  her  father  to  Barbara  Stafford,  with  a 
proud  refusal  on  her  lip,  the  calm,  blue  eyes  of  the  woman 
fell  upon  her,  like  sunshine  on  a  thunder-cloud.  The  re 
pulse  that  had  burned  on  her  lip  quivered  into  a  murmur 
of  welcome  ;  her  eyes  drooped  to  the  earth,  and  she  grew 
ashamed  of  her  passion.  The  fire  upon  her  cheek  melted 
into  a  modest  blush,  and  her  voice  was  sweet  with  new 
born  humility. 

And  all  this  change  arose  from  a  single,  calm  glance, 
prolonged  and  vital  with  that  mesmeric  power  which 
endows  some  human  beings  with  wonderful  influence — an 
influence  that  might  well  arouse  the  superstition  of  an  age 
like  that,  and  prove  a  dangerous  gift  to  its  possessor. 

As  Elizabeth  stood  before  her,  mute  and  blushing, 
Barbara  reached  forth  her  hand,  clasping  that  of  the  youog 
girl  with  a  gentle  pressure. 

"  You  will  not  find  me  troublesome,"  she  said,  with  a 
sad  smile,  quietly  ignoring  the  fact  that  they  had  ever 
met  before ;  "  I  want  a  little  time  for  rest  and  thought. 


ASKING     FOB     SHELTER.  259 

You  will  not  grudge  me  a  corner  in  your  home,  or  a  crust 
and  cold  water  twice  a  day.  My  wants  will  be  scarcely 
more  than  that." 

"  You  shall  be  welcome,  lady,"  murmured  Elizabeth, 
almost  in  a  whisper.  "But  deal  kindly  with  us,  for  you 
have  great  power." 

This  was  not  at  all  the  reply  Elizabeth  had  intended  to 
make ;  but  she  had  no  courage  either  to  expostulate  or 
protest ;  her  heart  swelled,  and  her  limbs  shook,  but  she 
had  lost  all  ability  or  wish  to  send  the  stranger  from  her 
father's  door. 

"  Shall  we  go  in-doors  now  ?"  said  Samuel  Parris,  who 
saw  nothing  unusual  in  the  reception  his  daughter  had 
given  to  their  guest.  "  I  have  scarcely  spoken  to  my  niece 
yet ;  but  methought,  Elizabeth,  that  she  looked  sad,  as  if 
the  loneliness  of  our  absence  had  stricken  deep.  Pray, 
call  Abigail  Williams,  my  child.  I  would  greet  her  once 
more,  and  present  her  to  our  guest." 

"  I  have  already  seen  the  young  lady,"  said  Barbara, 
smiling  upon  the  old  man ;  "she  gave  me  some  breakfast, 
this  morning,  before  you  came  !" 

"And  in  all  that  time  we  were  together  never  mentioned 
it,"  murmured  Elizabeth,  with  a  swell  of  jealous  indigna 
tion  at  the  heart ;  "  this  is  why  Abby  shuns  me  so 
cruelly  !" 

"  She  has  a  fair — nay,  that  is  not  the  right  word — she 
has  a  strangely  interesting  face,"  continued  Barbara, 
softly,  "  a  sibilline  face,  full  of  sweet  gravity.  I  have 
never  seen  features  so  beautiful." 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  the  simple-hearted  old  man,  looking 
with  jealous  fondness  on  his  own  child,  "Abby  is  a 
comely  girl  enough  ;  but  great  painters,  I  am  told,  give 
blue  eyes  and  &unny  hair  to  the  angels  " 


260  ASKING     FOB     SHELTER. 

Barbara  smiled.  His  words  bore  a  double  compliment, 
for  her  own  hair,  though  concealed  under  the  folds  of  a 
lace  coif,  was  lightly  golden,  and  her  eyes  were  of  that 
deep  bluish  gray,  which  might  at  one  time  have  been  as 
rich  in  sparkling  life  as  those  of  Elizabeth  ;  but  were  now 
sad  and  hazy,  with  crushed  tears. 

Samuel  Parris  had  not  noticed  this.  His  heart  was 
turning  back  to  another  fair  creature,  who  had  indeed 
been  the  angel  at  his  hearthstone  years  before ;  and  her 
memory  was  the  very  type  of  human  loveliness  to  him. 

Barbara  Stafford  seemed  to  understand  his  thoughts.  * 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "you  are  right;  "there  is  something 
almost  divine  in  a  pure,  young  face  like — like — "  she 
broke  off  suddenly^  with  a  little  confusion  which  satisfied 
the  strong  love  of  the  old  man  for  his  child.  Of  course, 
the  strange  lady  could  not  praise  the  beauty  of  Elizabeth, 
and  she  present.  He  looked  at  his  daughter,  wondering 
at  the  cloud  on  her  forehead. 

Barbara  stepped  forward,  and  laid  her  hand  on  that  of 
the  young  girl ;  Elizabeth  shrunk  back,  but  as  Barbara's 
fingers  closed  over  hers,  a  thrill  of  almost  imperceptible 
pleasure  stole  the  pain  from  her  heart,  and  she  blushed 
like  a  naughty  child  beneath  the  grave,  kind  look,  fastened 
on  her  face. 

Abby  Williams  looked  out  from  the  gable  window  of ; 
her  little  chamber,  and  saw  the  action.  A  vague  sense 
of  loneliness  drove  her  back  into  the  room.  She  locked 
the  door,  creating  for  herself  a  moral  desert,  in  which  she 
eat  down,  a  second  Ishmael,  ready  to  lift  her  hand  against 
every  creature  of  the  white  race. 

A  week  went  by,  and  all  the  bitter  feelings,  starting  u] 
in  the  hearts  of  those  two  girls,  grew  and  throve   like 
which    overruns    all   the    sweet  flowers  of 


ASKING     FOR     SHELTER.  261 

garden.  Elizabeth  was  grieved  and  wounded  into  cold 
ness.  Abbj  grew  silent,  and  shrunk  away  from  her 
warm-hearted  cousin.  Her  whole  habits  of  life  changed. 
She  gave  up  all  her  dainty  needle-work  and  passive  knit 
ting  ;  from  choice  she  toiled  all  day  long  in  the  kitchen 
with  old  Tituba,  doing  the  hardest  and  coarsest  work  with 
a  zeal  that  threatened  to  undermine  her  strength.  The 
sweet,  dreamy  portion  of  her  life  gave  place  to  hard 
reality.  She  toiled  like  a  slave,  and  thought  like  a 
martyr. 

Samuel  Parris  sometimes  expostulated  with  his  niece, 
in  a  solemn,  kindly  way  ;  but  she  answered  him  vaguely, 
and  went  on  her  own  course,  denying  his  authority  to 
chide  only  by  a  persistent  refusal  to  change  her  new  mode 
of  life. 

"  I  will  earn  my  own  bread,"  she  would  say  to  herself, 
"  the  hand  that  smote  my  mother  shall  not  feed  her 
child." 

Then  would  come  bitter,  bitter  hatred  for  the  shelter  she 
had  received,  and  the  food  she  had  eaten  from  her  cradle 
up.  She  loathed  the  very  roundness  of  her  limbs,  and  the 
richness  of  her  beauty,  because  both  had  thriven  on  the 
kindness  of  her  mother's  arch  enemy.  Yet  it  seemed 
strange,  very  strange,  that  any  one  could  feel  a  moment's 
bitterness  toward  that  good  old  man,  who  had  but  acted 
up  to  the  light  of  an.  iron  age,  believing  himself  even  as 
Paul  believed,  when  he  persecuted 'the  saints  most  cruelly. 

Thus  the  household  of  Samuel  Parris  was  divided 
against  itself;  and  in  the  midst  of  this  growing  discord, 
Barbara  Stafford  rested,  after  many  a  heavy  trouble,  un 
conscious  of  the  good  or  evil  her  presence  created.  She 
was  a  stranger  in  the  land,  the  very  reasons  for  her 
coining  rested  a  secret  in  her  bosom.  Distressed,  dis- 


262  ASKING     FOR     SHELTER. 

appointed,  and  filled  with  heavy  regrets,  she  had  lost 
the  keen  perception  which  might  have  enlightened  a  less 
occupied  person  regarding  the  effect  of  her  visit  at  tho 
minister's  house.  Besides  all  this,  Barbara  knew  nothing 
of  the  previous  habits  of  the  family,  and  had  no  way  of 
learning  that  the  two  girls,  now  so  far  apart,  had,  up  to 
the  last  two  months,  been  like  twin  blossoms  which  a 
storm  had  never  touched.  But  the  days  wore  on,  as  if  no 
discontent  were  known  under  that  humble  roof.  When 
Abby  Williams  was  not  drudging  in  the  kitchen,  she 
spent  her  time  in  the  woods  ;  and  in  this  lay  the  greatest 
danger  of  all,  for  during  their  lives,  the  two  girls  had 
haunted  those  forest  nooks  in  company.  Xow  Abigail 
went  alone,  in  the  day  and  in  the  night,  without  a  word 
of  explanation  when  she  went  in.  or  when  she  came  out. 

I  do  nbt  know  how  Barbara  Stafford  spent  her  time,  or 
what  led  her  so  much  into  the  open  air.  She  sat  hours 
together  on  the  sea-shore,  looking  wistfully  over  the 
swelling  blue  of  the  waters,  waiting  and  musing  like  one 
who  had  no  world  out  of  her  own  thoughts.  She  seldom 
went  to  the  forest,  but  sometimes  walked  slowly  out  to 
the  outskirtiug  trees,  and  came  back  again  breathing  fast 
as  if  something  had  frightened  her  away. 

Sometimes  Elizabeth,  weary  of  the  solitude  forced  upon 
her,  would  join  Barbara  in  the  sitting-room  down-stairs, 
for  the  young  girl  seemed  constantly  torn  by  opposing  in 
fluences.  In  the  absence  of  her  father's  guest,  jealousy, 
suspicion,  and  bursts  of  dislike,  embittered  every  thought ; 
but  some  strange  force  seemed  constantly  bringing  the  two 
in  company.  Then  Elizabeth  was  like  a  little  child,  so 
gentle,  and  regretting  so  much  the  bitter  feelings  of  her 
solitude,  that  her  whole  character  was  disturbed  with  con 
tradictions. 


STRANGE     SHADOWS.  263 


CHAPTER   XXX. 


ONE  evening,  after  Barbara  Stafford  had  found  shelter 
beneath  the  roof  of  Samuel  Parris,  Jason  Brown  and  his 
wife  sat  upon  the  lonely  hearth,  just  after  the  tow-wicked 
candle  was  lighted,  and  the  evening  knitting-work  brought 
out.  Jason  was  sitting  near  the  round  stand,  scooping 
out  a  rude  butter-ladle  with  his  jackknife,  from  a  thick 
piece  of  pine,  which  he  had  brought  in  from  the  wood- 
house.  The  hired  man  occupied  a  closer  place  by  the  dim 
light ;  for  he  was  employed  in  the  more  difficult  operation 
of  mending  a  broken  harness. 

"  Look  a-here,  Jase,"  said  the  hired  man,  looking  up 
from  his  task,  while  he  jerked  two  waxed  ends  through 
the  leather,  and  tightened  them  at  arm's  length.  "  What 
du  yer  mean  ter  decide  on  about  them  tarnal  heavy  boxes 
in  the  barn  ?  The  hay  is  eenamost  gone,  and  by-an-by 
there  won't  be  enough  left  to  kiver  'em  with.  Besides — 
what  is  in  'era  ?  I  should  kinder  like  to  know  that,  my 
bisness  or  not." 

"What  du  you  know  or  care  about  that?"  answered 
Jason,  lifting  his  butter-ladle  to  the  light,  and  eying  its 
growing  symmetry  with  great  satisfaction. 

"Don't  know  nothin'  and  don't  care  a  darn,"  was  the 
reply,  given  in  perfect  self-complacency ;  "  only  the  all- 
fired  things  will  be  tarnally  in  the  way  when  we  come  to 
thrash." 

"But  thev  can  be  moved  then." 


264  STRANGE     SHADOWS. 

"  Moved !  why  you  might  as  well  try  to  lift  a  tomb- 
stun.  I  reckon  I've  tried  it." 

Goody  Brown  kept  on  with  her  work,  without  joining 
m  this  conversation,  and  for  some  minutes  the  click  and 
rattle  of  her  needles  kept  time  with  the  splinters  cast  off 
by  her  husband's  jackknife. 

Then  the  hired  man  spoke  again. 

"  How  long  afore  you'll  be  going  to  sea  agin,  Jase  ?" 

"  That's  rayther  unsartin.  There'll  be  a  good  deal  of 
jiner  work  to  do  on  the  vessel  afore  she  puts  out  agin. 
That  storm  tore  her  eenamost  tu  pieces." 

Goody  Brown  looked  up  from  her  knitting  with  the 
ghost  of  a  smile  hovering  over  her  lips. 

"  Then  you'll  have  so  much  longer  to  stay  tu  hum,",  she 

Mid. 

"  "Wai,  yes  ;  I  shouldn't  much  wonder  if  Thanksgiving 
found  me  in  this  identical  spot." 

The  good  wife  breathed  deeply,  and  went  on  with  her 
work,  sending  out  absolute  music  from  her  needles.  Then 
the  hired  man  spoke  again. 

"Any  passengers  this  trip  ?" 

"  One  bespoken  for  the  cabin." 

"  Who,  of  all  the  Bosting  folks,  are  going  over  now  ?" 
asked  the  housewife. 

"  It  ain't  a  Bosting  woman  that  I  ever  hearn  on," 
answered  Jason,  "  but  the  same  lady  that  stayed  with 
you  so  long  arter  the  storm.  She's  going  straight  hum 
agin,  I  reckon.  Her  passage  .was  took  the  very  day  arter 
Governor  Phipps  jined  the  church.  She  was  uneasy 
enough  about  getting  off  ter  once,  and  wanted  the  ship 
to  put  out  jist  as  she  was,  jiner  or  no  jiner.  But  the 
captain  said  he  couldn't  and  wouldn't  hist  a  sail  till  his 
craft  was  sound  and  taut  from  stem  to  stern,  not  if  the 


STRANGE     SHADOWS.  265 

lady  offered  him  her  hull  weight  in  guinea  gold.  So  she 
had  ter  put  up  with  it." 

"  Poor  lady,  how  homesick  she  must  be  !"  said  the  house 
wife,  setling  a  fresh  needle  in  the  quill  of  a  knitting 
sheath  of  red  cloth  fastened  on  the  right  side  of  her  waist, 
and  twisting  the  yarn  around  her  forefinger.  "  She  was 
a  proper  purty  woman,  wasn't  she,  Jase  ?  See  here  what 
she  gave  me  the  morning  afore  she  went  away." 

Goody  Brown  laid  down  her  work,  and,  thrusting  one 
hand  deep  into  her  pocket,  drew  forth  a  steel  side  thimble,  a 
lump  of  yellow  wax,  crossed  and  recrossed  with  marks  of 
the  thread  she  had  drawn  over  it,  a  trunk  key,  two  great 
copper  pennies,  and  a  tiny  parcel  done  np  in  an  old  book- 
leaf.  This  she  carefully  unfolded  and  laid  four  goldea 
guineas  on  the  stand. 

"  You  can  have  'em,  Jase,"  she  said  in  a  low,  husky 
voice.  "  They  ain't  of  no  use  to  me  now." 

Jason  understood  her  and  made  a  reckless  cut  at  the 
butter  ladle,  for  his  hand  became  all  at  once  unsteady. 

"  When  I  was  a  scrimpin'  and  saving  to  send  our 
own — " 

"  Wai !  wal !  it  ain't  no  use  to  talk  about  that  now," 
cried  out  the  father,  stung  into  a  passion  of  angry  grief. 
"  What  God  has  done  is  done.  What's  the  use  of  pining 
over  it  ?" 

"  Why,  Jase,"  answered  the  wife,  rebuking  him  with 
her  grave,  deep  eyes,  "  I  didn't  mean  that — only  the  gold 
ain't  of  no  use  ter  me  anyhow  since  I  haven't  any  children 
to  edicate.  It  isn't  for  me  to  fly  into  the  face  of  Provi 
dence,  and  I  never  thought  of  doing  it." 

"Buy  a  yoke  of  oxen  with  the  money,"  interposed  the 
hired  man.  "I've  beam  of  people  loving  their  oxen 
a'most  like  children.  It's  enough  to  make  a  fellur's  heart 


266  STRANfrK     SHADOWS. 

yeara  to  see  how  patient, y  them  critturs  will  bend  under 
one  yoke  and  kinder  help  me  another  along.  Talk  about 
friendship  and  brotherly  feelin' — wal,  if  that  thing  ain't 
found  in  a  yoke  of  oxen  brought  up  together  from  steers, 
it's  of  no  use  to  sarch  for  it.  If  yer  feelings  is  touched  and 
kinder  hankers  arter  something  ter  love,  buy  a  yoke  of 
oxen — that's  my  advice." 

Jason  Brown  was  thoughtfully  whittling  down  the  edge 
of  his  ladle.  His  wife  took  up  her  knitting,  which  dragged 
on  with  slow  monotony,  for  she  looped  each  stitch  through 
a  blinding  mist  of  tears  ;  but  the  hired  man  snapped  his 
waxed  ends  as  if  they  had  been  bow-strings,  punched  his 
awl  furiously  through  the  unyielding  leather,  and  looked 
out  from  his  bending  eyebrows  now  tnd  then,  in  vague 
astonishment  that  his  advice  was  so  blankly  received. 
All  at  once  he  paused  with  both  threads  half  drawn,  and 
listened. 

"  What  on  'arth  is  that  ?" 

A  sound,  as  if  from  the  falling  of  some  ponderous  object 
a  little  distance  off,  had  occasioned  this  exclamation. 
Jason  Brown  and  his  wife  suspended  their  work  in  aston 
ishment,  and  sat  gazing  at  each  other. 

"  I  will  go  see,"  said  Brown,  closing  his  knife  with 
a  defiant  snap.  "  It  don't  seem  like  the  stomp  of  horses." 

"  Hush  up  !"  whispered  the  hired  man.  "  Set  down 
this  minute  and  look  behind  you  !" 

Jason  had  a  powerful  will  of  his  own  and  was  not  to 
be  ordered  about  by  any  one^but  he  turned  toward  the 
window  which  the  man  was  pointing  out  with  his  awl  and 
saw  it  crowded  with  dusky  faces,  rendered  terrible  by 
great,  fiery  eyes  and  stiff,  upright  plumes,  that  shot  up 
through  the  darkness  like  shafted  arrows  from  a  quiver. 


STRANGE     SHADOWS.  267 

"  Great  God,  help  us,  for  it  is  the  Indians  !"  exclaimed 
Brown,  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

The  woman  held  her  work  suspended,  as  if  it  had  frozen 
in  her  hand.  The  hired  r^an  went  on  with  his  stitching, 
xit  his  sunburned  face  grew  whiter  and  whiter  with  each 
pull  of  the  thread,  and  the  sidelong  glances  he  cast  at  the 
window  betrayed  the  keen  terror  his  stolid  obstinacy  sup 
pressed. 

"  Shall  we  pitch  in,  or  keep  still  ?"  whispered  Brown. 

''Keep  still,"  answered  the  woman. 

"Or  else  God  have  mercy  upon  us,"  muttered  the 
Jtrired  man,  "for  I  dare  say  there  is  a  hundred  to  one." 

"  Wife,  where  is  my  father's  gun  ?"  demanded  Brown, 
ashamed  of  standing  helplessly  on  his  own  hearth. 

''Behind  the  bedroom  door,  Jason." 

"  Is  it  loaded  ?" 

"  With  buck  shot,"  answered  the  hired  man.  "  I  loaded 
it  for  wild  game,  but  blaze  away  at  them  varmints,  if  you 
want  to,  and  I'll  back  you  up  with  the  fire  shovel.  The  old 
woman  can  pitch  in  with  a  flat-iron  or  rolling-pin.  They 
shan't  say  that  we  didn't  show  grit  afore  they  scalped  us, 
anyhow.  Darn  'em  !" 

"  Hark  !  they  are  gone." 

True  enough,  the  crowd  of  faces  vanished  from  the  win 
dow  like  shadows,  and  a  confused  tread  of  feet  followed, 
BO  mellow  and  soft  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  earth  throbbed 
with  a  faint  pulsation.  This  sound  lasted  some  minutes; 
and  then  died  away  in  the  whisperings  of  the  forest  that 
crept  along  the  shore  close  up  to  the  stone  homestead. 

When  all  was  still  again  a  footstep  stole  over  the  turf 
and  paused  before  the  threshold.  This  was  followed  by  a 
low  knock  and  a  gentle  stir  of  the  latch  string.  Brown 
went  to  the  door.  The  ruddy  color  had  left  his  cheek,  but 


268  STRANGE     SHADOWS. 

his  Land  was  firm  as  it  lifted  the  wooden  bar  and  threw 
the  door  wide  open.  A  young  man  stood  in  the  opening, 
and  the  light  fell  upon  his  face. 

"  Wai,  now,  if  this  don't  beat  all.  Is  it  raly  you  ? 
Come  in,  come  in,  and  shet  the  door,  for  just  as  true  as 
you  live  there's  live  Injuns  around  to-night." 

The  young  man  came  in,  lifting  the  cap  from  his  head 
as  he  entered.  He  was  a  workman  employed  on  the 
vessel.  Then  Brown  attempted  to  appear  unconcerned, 
but  his  face  was  disturbed  and  his  voice  shook. 

"  Why,  you  seem  to  be  frightened,"  said  the  young  man. 
"  What  at  ?" 

"  Did  you  meet  nothing  on  the  way  ?"  asked  Brown. 

"  Yes,  a  flock  of  sea-gulls  wheeling  out  to  sea." 

"And  nothing  more — no  red  Injuns  ?" 

"  Red  Indians  !  Indeed,  I  saw  nothing  worse  than  my 
self,"  was  the  cheerful  reply. 

"And  did  you  pass  close  to  the  window  ?"  asked  the 
hired  man. 

"Yes,  I  passed  the  window." 

"And  did  you  twist  one  face  into  ten,  and  crown  them 
all  with  eagles'  quills  ?" 

"  No,  not  exactly  that,  but  I  did  look  in." 

"And  no  one  else  ?"  asked  Brown. 

"  Truly,  friends,  you  question  me  close,  but  I  was  alone." 

"  Husband,"  said  Goody  Brown,  in  a  solemn  whisper, 
"  it  might  have  been  a  witch  gathering.  Who  knows  ?" 

Jason  Brown  turned  deadly,  white,  and  the  hired  man 
thrust  the  awl  through  his  thumb. 

"  In  that  case  you  had  better  not  speak  of  it,"  said  the 
young  man,  with  a  shade  of  gravity.  "  It  is  almost  as 
dangerous  to  be  visited  by  witches  as  to  join  in  their 
wicked  rioting.  I  remember,  at  the  last  trial,  it  waa 


STKAXGE     SHADOWS.  269 

set  forth  in  evidence  that  the  woods  around  here  were 
given  up  to  witchcraft :  I  for  one  do  not  believe  it,  but  yet 
if  you  saw  the  faces  ?" 

"  We  did  !  we  did  !" 

"  Crowned  with  eagles'  plumes  ?" 

"  Yes,  like  savage  Indians." 

"  But  no  Indian  would  dare  flount  his  war  plumes  in 
this  neighborhood.  It  is  too  near  Boston  for  that." 

"  True,  how  is  that  possible  ?  The  tribes  are  quiet 
now,"  answered  Brown,  thoughtfully. 

"  It  is  witchcraft  beyond  a  doubt,"  whispered  the  good 
wife.  "  I  remember,  now,  the  needles  turned  to  stones  in 
my  hands.  I  lost  all  power  to  move  them." 

"And  my  feet  were  nailed  to  the  hearth,"  answered 
Jason.  "  I,  who  never  knew  what  it  was  to  be  scared  in 
my  life,  could  not  move." 

"  See  how  the  pestilent  things  have  wounded  me,"  added 
the  hired  man,  exhibiting  his  thumb  from  which  the  blood 
was  falling  in  heavy  drops. 

"  Hark  I  I  hear  footsteps  again,"  whispered  the  good 
wife. 

Sure  enough,  slow  and  steady  footsteps  came  across 
the  turf,  and  a  knock  sounded  at  the  door. 

"  I  will  open  it,"  said  the  young  man,  cheerfully.  "  No 
witchcraft  can  harm  me,  save  that  oi«&  bright  eye  ami 
cherry  lip." 

He  opened  the  door  with  a  brave  swing  while  uttering 
these  words,  but  started  back  in  dismay,  for  there,  upon  the 
gravel  of  the  path,  stood  a  woman  with  a  crimson  mantle 
over  her  shoulders  and  its  hood  drawn  close  around  ho.* 
face. 

"  Is  the  dame  or  her  husband  at  home  ?"  inquired 
the  woman  in  a  clear,  rich  voice  that  made  the  housewife 


270  STRANGE     SHADOWS. 

start.     "  I   wish    to    see    either    Jason    Brown    or    his 
wife." 

"  If  you  are  an  honest  woman  and  no  witch,  come  in," 
answered  the  young  man,  half  closing  the  door  against 
her,  notwithstanding  his  invitation. 

The  woman  advanced  to  the  door  and  pushed  it  gently 
open.  Goody  Brown  arose  with  a  flush  on  her  cheek 
and  cailed  out,  in  a  voice  of  infinite  relief,  "  It  is  the  lady  ! 
it  is  the  lady  1" 

Barbara  Stafford  entered  the  room,  and  went  up  to  the 
excited  housewife. 

"  I  come  at  an  untimely  hour,"  she  said,  pushing  the 
red  hood  back  from  her  face,  "  but  it  could  not  be 
helped." 

"  Sit  down,  sit  down,  and  take  off  your  things,"  said 
the  housewife,  greatly  relieved,  for  she  had  learned  to  love 
the  gentle  lady,  and  believed  in  her. 

"  Sit  down.  We  have  had  tea  long  ago,  but  Jase  shall 
rake  open  the  fire,  and  hang  on  the  kettle  in  no  time." 

"No,  no,  it  is  impossible!  I  cannot  wait,"  answered 
the  lady,  resisting  Mrs.  Brown's  effort  to  unclasp  her 
cloak.  "A  few  words  only  and  I  must  go  back  again." 

"What!  to-night?" 

"  Yes,  at  once." 

"  To  Boston — to  the  governor's  house  ?"  questioned 
Goody  Brown. 

"  No,  no,  farther  than  that.  I  have  along  ride  through 
the  woods." 

"Through  the  woods!"  exclaimed  four  voices  at 
once.  "  Why,  they  swarm  with  wild  beasts  and  savage 
Indians  1" 

"Ah,  me,"  answered  the  lady,  "  it  is  not  of  them  I  am 
afraid  :  my  best  friends  are  in  the  forest. " 


STRANGE     SHADOWS.  271 

"  But  how  will  you  ride,  lady  ?"  asked  the  young  car 
penter,  looking  at  her  with  growing  distrust. 

"  I  have  a  swift  and  sure  horse,  and  know  how  to  ride 
even  in  the  nigtil.  Beside  I  carne  with  an  escort." 

"  Of  white  men  or  devils  ?"  questioned  the  hired  man, 
nursiug  bis  thumb,  and  eying  the  lady  with  sinister 
glances. 

"  Nay,  it  is  wrong  to  speak  of  these  unhappy  childien 
of  the  woods  in  this  fashion.  They  have  been  a  grand 
people,  and  possess  power  even  yet.  I  marvel  that  they 
are  pursued  with  such  hatred." 

The  benevolent  smile  that  broke  over  her  noble  face  as 
she  spoke  charmed  half  the  superstition  out  of  that  rough 
heart.  As  for  the  others,  they  forgot  all  distrust,  and  op 
pressed  her  with  offers  of  hospitality. 

"  Not  to-night.  I  will  come  and  sleep  in  your  pretty 
room  again,"  she  said,  laying  her  small  hand  on  Goody 
Brown's  shoulder.  "But  now  I  must  be  in  haste.  Tell 
me,  Brown,  for  it  is  urgent  that  I  should  know,  when  the 
ship  will  be  read\r  to  sail." 

"  It  is  hard  to  tell,"  answered  Brown,  "  but  here  is  the 
master  workman  :  he  knows  best." 

Barbara  turned  a  questioning  look  on  the  young  man, 
who  answered  it  as  if  she  had  spoken. 

"Some  time  this  fall  the  craft  will  be  ready." 

"This  autumn  and  not  before!''  cried  Barbara,  with 
surprise  and  even  anguish  in  her  voice.  "  Ob,  my  God  ! 
how  am  I  to  get  over  this  weary  time  ?" 

"  It  is  slow  work,  and  hands  are  scarce,"  said  the  car 
penter. 

"But  gold  can  do  much,  every  thing,  they  tell  me,  and  J 
have  plenty,"  cried  Barbara,  with  nervous  eagerness 

"Young  man,  spare  nothing  that  can  speed  this  work 
17 


272  STRANGE     SHADOWS. 

Get  more  men — toil  night  and  day.  I  will  find  means  for 
all.  Only  let  the  ship  be  ready  before  the  leaves  turn 
from  green  to  red." 

"  Lady,  I  will  do  my  best,"  answered  the  carpenter. 

"I  tell  you  again  spare  nothing  that  money  can  pay 
for.  No  matter  what  labor  costs,  I  will  find  gold  to  meet 
every  demand.  Jason  Brown,  urge  this  matter  forward. 
Those  who  serve  me  I  can  enrich." 

"  Yes,  lady,  I  will  do  my  best." 

"  It  was  for  this  I  came  to-night.  I  waited  for  news 
that  the  ship  was  ready  to  sail,  till  delay  made  me  heart 
sick,  and  I  could  tarry  at  rest  no  longer.  Now,  ah,  me, 
you  say  wait  till  fall,  as  if  it  were  an  easy  thing." 

"  Be  content,  dear  lady,"  said  Goody  Brown,  touched  by 
this  pathetic  cry  of  disappointment.  "  My  old  man  shall 
go  in  search  of  workmen.  He  can  do  any  thing  when  he's 
a  mind  to." 

"  Thank  you  I  thank  you  !  See,  I  have  brought  money 
with  me,"  said  Barbara.  "  When  that  is  gone  I  can  find 
more." 

Barbara  laid  a  purse,  heavy  with  gold,  on  the  candle 
stand,  as  she  spoke.  All  three  of  the  men  looked  at  it 
with  a  thrill  of  superstitious  dread.  At  last  Brown 
spoke. 

"  Is  it  English  gold,  honest  guineas,  with  His  Majesty's 
face  on  it  ?" 

Barbara  smiled. 

" Certainly,"  she  answered.  "I  have  no  other.  The 
coin  of  England  is  current  here.  Why  this  hesita 
tion  ?" 

Brown  took  up  the  purse  and  emptied  a  quantity  of 
its  gold  into  his  hard  palm. 

"  Truly   it   is   the   king's   head,   and   full  weight,"  he 


STRANGE     SHADOWS.  273 

muttered.  Then  turning  more  confidently  to  the  lady,  he 
said  : 

"And  I  am  to  use  this  about  the  ship  ?" 

"  Yes  !  yes  !" 

"And  crowd  on  all  the  work  we  can,"  joined  in  the  car 
penter. 

"Yes!  yes!" 

"  That  is  easy  understood,"  observed  the  hired  man. 

I  only  wish  that  I  could  swing  a  broad  axe." 

'  Now  I  must  go,"  said  the  lady,  taking  the  hard  band 
of  Goody  Brown  in  her  friendly  clasp.  "  You  have  been 
kind  to  rue  and  I  can  never  forget  it.  Only  help  me  to 
these  shores,  and  see  if  I  prove  ungrateful." 

These  words  had  hardly  left  the  lady's  lips  when  she 
was  outside  the  door  and  moving  toward  the  woods  in  a 
rapid  walk. 

These  three  men  and  Goody  Brown  flocked  to  the 
window  and  looked  after  her  as  she  moved  through  the 
light  of  a  moon  buried  half  the  time  under  the  fleecy 
whiteness  of  drifting  clouds.  She  approached  the  woods 
and  they  saw  her  engulfed  in  shadows  that  seemed  to 
move  and  sway  with  the  wind.  Directly  she  came  forth, 
riding  on  a  milk-white  horse,  that  stood  out  from  the 
leaden  shadows  distinct  as  marble  ;  for  that  instant  the 
moon  threw  off  its  fleecy  burden  of  clouds,  and  rode  clear 
and  bright  across  a  plain  of  blue  sky.  Directly  another 
horse  and  rider,  that  looked  black  as  ebony  in  the  distance, 
came  out  of  the  shadows,  and  then  a  third ;  but  whether 
the  riders  of  these  black  steeds  were  men  or  women  no 
one  could  tell.  For  a  little  time  the  horses  kept  along 
the  edge  of  the  woods,  but  at  last  they  plunged  into  some 
forest  path  and  were  gone. 

Still  the  inmates  of  the    farm-house  watched   by  the 


274:  STRANGE     SHADOWS. 

window,  for  there  was  something  wierd  in  the  woman's 
departure  which  stimulated  curiosity.  As  they  looked, 
the  edges  of  the  wood  grew  alive.  Dusky  forms  moved 
to  and  fro,  now  in  the  darkness,  now  in  fitful  gleams  of 
light ;  and  the  forests  began  to  sway  and  moan  as  if  op 
pressed  by  some  evil  presence,  which  made  all  its  boughs 
heave  and  its  foliage  quiver.  Then  a  muffled  yell  broke 
out  from  the  heart  of  the  woods,  and  a  line  of  what  seemed 
"  to  be  human  forms  came  into  an  open  field  that  lay  close 
to  the  forest,  and,  curving  onward  like  an  enormous  ser 
pent,  crept  away  through  the  darkness. 

There  was  little  said  in  the  farm-house  that  night  about 
these  mysterious  appearances,  but  a  vague  superstition 
took  possession  of  those  three  men,  and  they  all  felt  as  if 
the  gold  they  had  received  might  vanish  into  thin  air 
before  morning. 

When  the  day  broke,  Brown  and  his  hired  man  went 
into  the  barn  in  order  to  clear  the  thrashing-floor  of  all 
incumbrances.  They  found  the  door  shut  and  every  thing 
in  place.  But  when  the  man  went  to  the  corner  where 
those  ponderous  boxes  had  been  stored,  they  were  gone. 
Then  the  thick  hair  on  Jason  Brown's  head  stood  up  with 
terror,  and  turning  from  the  astonished  look  of  his  com 
panion  he  went  into  the  house. 

"  Wife,  take  that  purse  of  gold  from  your  bosom  and 
give  it  to  me." 

^he  woman  obeyed  him,  and  drew  forth  the  purse. 
He  snatched  it  from  her  hold,  left,  the  house,  and  ran  down 
to  the  shore.  When  he  reached  the  verge  of  the  water, 
great  drops  stood  on  his  forehead,  and  he  panted  for 
breath.  A  little  way  off  was  a  line  of  breakers  dashing 
up  spray  from  a  cluster  of  hidden  rocks.  Brown  wacl«-d 
knee-deep  into  the  water,  swung  his  arm  backward,  and 
burled  the  purse  into  the  seething  foam. 


NOON     IN     THE     \V  0  0  D  3 .  275 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

NOON    IN    THE    WOODS. 

OLD  Wahpee  had  procured  a  forest-bred  horse  for  Bar 
bara  Stafford  and  another  for  his  own  use.  Restless  from 
a  strong  desire  to  leave  the  county,  she  had  besought  him 
to  act  as  her  guide  to  the  stone  farm-house.  Their  object 
was  unknown  to  the  family,  for  the  Indian  was  sadly 
afraid  that  Samuel  Parris  would  know  of  his  share  in  the 
business,  and  for  this  reason  Barbara  promised  to  keep  her 
journey  a  secret.  Tituba  alone  of  all  the  household  was 
taken  into  their  confidence,  and  she  undertook  to  divert 
attention  from  Barbara's  movements. 

This  was  no  very  difficult  matter,  for  the  cousins  were 
occupied  with  each  other,  and  Samuel  Parris  in  his  self- 
absorption  would  hardly  have  missed  his  guest  had  she 
remained  absent  a  week.  So  one  day  Barbara  went  as 
usual  into  the  margin  of  the  forest,  mounted  the  white 
horse  that  Wahpee  held  by  the  bridle,  and  following  a 
trail  which  the  Indian  informed  her  led  by  a  short  cut  to 
Boston,  entered  fearlessly  on  her  adventure.  The  vast 
solitude  of  the  wilderness  harmonized  with  the  solemn 
depression  of  her  own  thoughts.  Its  profound  silence 
filled  her  with  a  sentiment  of  sublime  resignation.  Some 
times,  as  she  rode  along,  a  whispered  prayer  brightened 
her  face,  and  you  would  have  thought  that  she  was 
travelling  through  those  deep  forest  shades  directly  into 
that  happier  world  where  the  weary  are  at  rest.  So  far 
as  conversation  went,  she  was  completely  alone.  Wahpee 


278  NOON    IN    THE     WOODS. 

never  talked,  and  if  she  asked  him  a  question  it  was 
answered  in  some  brief  monosyllable.  So  deep  was  the 
forest  and  so  remote  the  way,  that  wild  deer  leaped  across 
her  path,  and  stopped  to  gaze  on  her  more  than  once  with 
almost  human  curiosity. 

No  matter  how  deep  or  persistent  unhappiness  may  be, 
there  is  something  in  nature  that  will  charm  it  half  away, 
if  the  heart  it  troubles  is  capable  of  real  poetic  sentiment. 
The  unselfish  and  pure-minded  cannot  look  upon  all  the 
munificence  of  God  lavished  everywhere  in  objects  of 
beauty  and  usefulness — for  the  glorious  Artist  of  the  uni 
verse  has  created  no  one  thing  that  has  not  a  peculiar 
gift  of  beauty  to  recommend  it — without  an  outburst  of 
thankfulness.  If  the  supreme  object  for  which  the  heart 
yearns  so  hungrily  is  withheld,  nature  holds  forth  a 
thousand  lures  of  beauty  which  are  sure  to  draw  the  soul 
out  of  itself  and  thus  nearer  to  its  God. 

Barbara  Stafford  was  very  unhappy.  Since  landing  in 
America,  her  life  had  been  one  struggle.  She  was  a 
woman  of  gentle  nature,  not  the  less  pliant  and  sweet 
because  her  will  was  firm  and  her  powers  of  endurance 
wonderful.  She  was  now  absolutely  without  earthly 
hope.  If  she  turned  to  the  past,  it  was  full  of  pain. 
The  future  lay  before  her  a  desert.  She  could  not  endure, 
even  in  thought,  to  travel  over  the  waste  which  lay  between 
her  coming  sea-voyage  and  the  grave.  But  though  un 
happy,  disappointed,  and  dejected,  she  was  neither  bitter 
nor  cynical.  The  grandeur  and  breadth  of  character 
which  had  led  her  silently  into  making  almost  impossible 
sacrifices  would  be  sufficient  to  carry  her  to  the  end  with 
out  faltering.  Her  history  and  her  object,  whatever  they 
were,  remained  a  secret  in  her  own  bosom.  That  she  suf 
fered,  no  one  who  looked  upon  the  lines  about  her  mouth 


NOON    IN    THE    WOODS.  277 

and  the  shadows  in  those  eyes  could  doubt.  Yet  a 
casual  observer  would  have  guessed  nothing  of  this,  and 
even  a  friend  might  have  sometimes  mistaken  her  kind 
ness  and  urbanity  for  the  expression  of  a  serene  life. 

Let  her  history  be  what  it  might,  the  woman  was  suffi 
cient  unto  herself.  She  knew  how  "  to  suffer  and  grow 
strong,"  without  hope  and  without  counsel.  That  day,  aa 
she  rode  through  the  woods,  so  rich  in  leanness,  so  lavish 
in  beauty,  her  soul  expanded  itself  thankfully  to  the 
sweet  influences  that  opened  upon  her.  She  was  no  longer 
young,  but,  perhaps,  more  capable  of  enjoyment  when 
alone  with  God's  works  for  that  very  reason.  So  for  the 
hour  she  put  aside  the  one  great  sorrow  that  haunted  her 
life,  and  rode  cheerfully  through  the  woods,  enjoying 
each  ferny  knoll  or  grassy  hollow,  with  a  brook  whisper 
ing  along  the  bottom,  as  if  she  had  nothing  but  sunshine  in 
her  heart. 

It  must  have  been  somewhat  after  noon  when  Wahpee 
came  upon  a  little  opening  in  the  trees,  where  some 
Indian  hunter  had  cleared  away  the  undergrowth  and  cut 
down  a  few  trees  in  order  to  build  a  lodge,  which  was  now 
a  heap  of  mossy  logs.  It  was  a  lovely  spot,  lifted  a  little 
from  the  level  of  the  woods  and  crested  with  half  a  dozen 
stately  old  trees,  through  which  the  sunshine  came  shim 
mering  down  upon  the  forest  turf,  luring  ten  thousand 
lovely  blossoms  up  through  its  greenness.  Half  in  the 
sunshine,  half  in  the  shadow  of  overhanging  pines  and 
hemlocks,  a  lovely  brook  went  singing  on  its  way  through 
bending  ferns  and  the  wild  vines  whose  roots  drank  life  from 
its  crystal  waves ;  while  around  this  bright  spot  the  dark 
barriers  of  the  forest  crowded  up  on  three  sides,  rendering 
its  green  slopes  more  sunny  from  their  sombre  contrast. 

Barbara  drew  up  her  horse  as  she  felt  the  sunshine 


278  NOON     IN     THE     WOODS. 

bursting  so  warmly  over  her  path,  and  uttered  an  ex 
clamation,  half  astonishment,  half  delight:  "Why,  Wah- 
pee  !  You  have  led  the  way  to  a  paradise,"  she  said, 
gazing  around.  "  One  almost  forgets  to  be  mortal  in  a 
place  like  this,  but  my  horse  reminds  us  that  he  at  least  is 
hungry." 

In  her  admiration,  Barbara  had  loosened  her  bridle,  and 
the  beautiful  animal  which  she  rode  was  cropping  the 
sward  with  great  zest,  eagerly  sweeping  up  grass  and 
blossoms  in  one  fragrant  mouthful,  as  if  he  feared  that 
her  hand  might  the  next  instant  curb  him  up  from  his 
sweet  repast. 

Wahpee  got  down  from  his  own  horse,  and  cast  him 
loose.  Then  he  lifted  Barbara  from  her  saddle,  and 
saying  only,  "  Come  here,"  led  her  along  the  margin  of  the 
brook,  where  she  observed,  with  some  surprise,  that  the 
grasses  and  ferns  had  been  recently  trodden  into  some 
thing  like  a  path.  The  brook  swept  its  crystal  curves 
around  one  side  of  the  clearing,  which  took  the  sun  so 
warmly,  then  widened  into  a  beautiful  pool,  margined 
with  golden  willows,  growing  wildly,  under  a  sumptuous 
drapery  of  vines.  Beyond  this  basin  of  water  Barbara 
saw  a  column  of  blue  smoke  curling  up  from  the  foot  of  a 
great  hemlock,  and  flashes  of  fire  shot  in  and  out  through 
the  quivering  green  of  the  undergrowth. 

Pleased  and  expectant,  for  Barbara  began  to  surmise 
that  she  had  not  been  brought  to  that  lovely  place  by  acci 
dent,  she  followed  her  guide  in  silence,  and  at  last  came 
out  on  a  mound  of  grand  circumference,  covered  so 
thickly  with  grass  that  her  feet  trod  a  hundred  tiny  flow 
ers  to  death  without  her  seeing  them.  The  willows  that 
margined  the  miniature  lake  at  its  base,  and  the  hemlocks 
that  crowded  up  from  the  forest,  hedged  in  this  prettj 


NOON     IN     THE     WOODS.  279 

eminence,  flickering  its  edges  with  tangled  shadows  and 
sunshine,  but  leaving  a  broad  flat  rock  on  the  summit 
bathed  in  golden  light.  Around  this  rock,  clusters  of  wild 
t.nimpet  vines,  trailing  arbutus,  and  golden  bitter-sweet, 
wove  their  beauties  together  in  luxuriant  wildness,  creep 
ing  in  rich  traceries  over  the  rock,  or  falling  in  garlands 
dowL  the  grassy  sides  of  the  mound.  The  centre  of  this 
rocky  table  was  bright  with  sparkling  crystals  and  clean 
as  granite  could  be  made.  Something  more  than  the  hand 
of  nature  had  been  at  work  there.  Not  a  dead  leaf  or 
broken  twig  could  be  found  littering  on  the  rock  or  in  the 
grass. 

"Ah,  how  lovely  !"  exclaimed  the  lady,  flinging  back 
the  hood  of  her  mantle,  and  looking  around  in  pleasant 
astonishment.  "  Surely,  Wahpee,  this  is  not  your  work  ?" 

"  Would  you  be  offended,  lady,  if  it  were  mine  ?"  said  a 
voice  close  by,  and  from  beneath  the  bending  hemlocks 
came  forth  Philip,  or  Metacomet,  the  young  man  whose 
fate  had  been  so  strangely  enwoven  with  her  own. 

"  Nay,  Philip,  I  am  neither  offended  nor  surprised. 
It  was  kind  to  provide  me  this  lovely  spot  to  rest  in, 
and  I  am  glad  to  look  once  more  on  the  face  of  a  friend." 

Barbara  sat  down  on  the  rock  as  she  spoke,  and  unfas 
tening  the  clasp  of  her  scarlet  cloak,  allowed  it  to  fall 
loosely  around  her.  Philip  flung  himself  on  the  grass  at 
her  feet,  kindling  up  its  green  with  the  gorgeousness 
of  his  savage  raiment.  Seated  thus,  they  could  catch 
gleams  of  blue  water  under  the  willow  branches,  and 
watch  the  broad  lily  pods  heaving  softly  up  and  down  as 
if  stirred  with  human  pulses. 

Barbara's  face  brightened,  and  her  lips  parted  with 
smiles.  She  was  naturally  of  a  cheerful  disposition,  and 
such  beauty  as  this  gladdened  her  whole  being. 


280  NOON     IN     THE    WOODS. 

"  It  seems  like  enchantment,"  she  said  ;  "  some  beautiful 
witchcraft  has  been  at  work  here." 

"  It  has  brought  a  smile  to  that  face,  and  I  am  happy," 
answered  the  young  man. 

"  Have  you  known  this  spot  long  ?"  asked  Barbara.  "  I* 
looks  like  a  corner  in  some  English  park.  The  clearing 
must  have  been  made  years  ago,  for,  save  that  once  mas 
sive  stump,  which  is  now  more  than  half  moss,  no  trace 
of  the  axe  is  visible." 

"It  was  cleared  years  ago,  lady,  for  I  was  born  here." 

"  Here  !" 

"  Yes,  my  father  was  out  hunting  with  the  chiefs  of  his 
tribe.  He  never  went  even  to  the  war-path  that  his  wife 
did  not  follow  and  rest  somewhere  near  him.  That  year  he 
built  her  lodge  in  this  spot.  A  few  of  the  old  logs  lie  in 
the  clearing  yonder  even  yet,  held  together  by  the  moss 
that  has  been  years  and  years  creeping  over  them. 
When  Wahpee  told  me  that  you  would  ride  through  the 
forest,  I  directed  him  to  bring  you  along  this  trail.  But 
you  look  tired  and  must  be  hungry." 

"  Yes,  a  little  tired,  and  not  a  little  hungry,"  answered 
Barbara.  "In  my  anxiety  I  quite  forgot  that  food  might 
be  needed  on  the  way." 

"  Would  to  heaven  that  I  could  always  think  for  you  !" 
was  the  humble  reply.  "Oh,  lady,  how  lovely  these 
forests  would  be  if  you  never  left  them !" 

Barbara  looked  around,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
"  If  you  were  my  son." 

The  young  man  made  an  impatient  gesture. 

"Or  my  brother,"  she  added.  "Then,  Philip,  I  might 
find  that  rest  here  which  all  other  places  in  the  world 
deny  me.  But  my  destiny  leads  me  into  the  world,  where 
I  shall  be  far  more  alone  than  you  can  be  here." 


NOON     IN     THE    WOODS.  281 

The  young  man  looked  searchingly  into  Barbara's  face, 
and  saw  how  honestly  she  spoke. 

"I  know!  I  knew  from  the  first  how  hopeless  this 
fatal  love  was,"  he  said,  passionately.  "  Yet  spite  of 
every  thing  it  will  break  forth  to  offend  you." 

"  No,  I  am  not  offended,"  answered  the  lady.  "  God 
forbid  that  honest  affection  should  anger  me  !  I  am  only 
sorrowful  that  my  destiny  is  always  to  give  pain.  I  do 
not  even  reason  with  you,  Philip,  knowing  well  that 
human  love  is  not  the  growth  of  human  will.  But  you 
must  learn  patience,  my  friend,  and  strive,  as  I  must,  to 
be  useful,  and  with  God's  help  happy,  without  love." 
*  Philip  shook  his  head,  and  arose  suddenly  that  she 
might  not  see  how  near  he  was  to  weeping.  He  advanced 
a  few  paces  into  the  forest  and  came  to  another  small  open 
ing  in  the  trees.  There  a  fire  was  blazing  up  redly,  sur 
rounded  by  a  group  of  Indian  women,  who  were  busy 
turning  a  half-dozen  birds,  fastened  by  delicate  withes  of 
bark  to  the  branches  overhead,  and  roasting  before  tho 
fire. 

"Come,"  said  the  chief,  in  the  Indian  tongue,  "is  all 
ready  ?" 

A  woman  was  busy  peeling  strips  of  birch  bark  from 
the  trunk  of  a  sapling  close  by.  She  cut  the  bark  into 
fragments  and  gave  them  to  the  women  about  the  fire, 
who  laid  the  roasted  birds  daintily  upon  them,  nesting 
each  one  in  leaves  from  a  golden  spice  bush  which  grew 
near.  Then  they  took  hot  corn-cakes  from  the  ashes,  and 
brought  from  under  a  cool  thicket  two  little  painted 
baskets  full  of  blue  berries,  with  the  bloom  on  them. 

This  rustic  meal  the  women  brought  forth  to  the  mound 
and  placed  upon  the  rock,  without  a  sign  of  curiosity 
about  the  stranger,  or  a  spoken  word.  Barbara  looked  on 


282  NOON     IN     THE     WOODS. 

in  wonder.  The  whole  scene  really  did  appear  like  en 
chantment  to  her.  Philip  took  a  case  from  the  pouch  by 
his  side,  and  extracted  from  it  a  knife  and  fork,  mounted 
with  silver.  Barbara's  eye  brightened  :  they  had  been  her 
gift  to  the  young  man  when  he  first  went  forth  on  his; 
travels  after  those  dreary  years  of  bondage. 

"Eat,"  he  said,  carving  one  of  the  birds  with  his  hunt 
ing-knife,  "  and  see  if  wholesome  food  may  not  be  found 
in  the  woods." 

"  Yes,  if  you  eat  also,"  she  answered.  "  In  our  hard 
journey  through  life  we  may  at  least  take  this  one  quiet 
meal  together." 

Philip  took  a  piece  of  the  bird,  but  could  not  eat;  his 
heart  was  too  full. 

"  This  is  our  last  meal  together  on  earth,  perhaps,"  he 
said,  in  a  broken  voice.  "  If  you  return  to  England  I 
may  perish  here,  and  never  look  upon  your  face  again." 

"  My  friend,  there  is  another  world,"  Barbara  answered, 
"  and  at  the  longest  only  a  few  short  years  divides  us 
from  it." 

"But  what  if  the  Indian's  hunting-grounds  and  the 
white  man's  heaven  should  be  eternally  sundered  ?" 
answered  the  young  chief  mournfully. 

"  That  cannot  be,"  was  the  gentle  reply.  "  If  friend 
ship  and  love  are  immortal,  God  will  not  make  a  torture 
of  his  holiest  gifts.  In  the  next  world  as  in  this  I  shall 
surely  be  your  friend." 

"And  the  friendship  of  angels  must  be  sweeter  than 
earthly  love,"  answered  the  youth.  "  That  shall  content 
me,  lady ;  something  tells  me  that  it  will  not  be  long 
before  I  can  claim  this  beautiful  promise,  up  yonder. 
The  path  that  I  have  chosen  is  full  of  danger,  and  its  end 
may  be  speedy  death." 


NOON     IN     T  H  K     WOODS.  283 

Barbara  looked  down  upon  him  with  all  the  light  of  a 
noble  soul  in  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  Philip  !  may  ypu  never  learn  how  sweet  the 
Lopes  of  death  can  be  to  a  human  soul." 

The  young  man  smiled  mournfully. 

"  Perhaps  I  have  already  learned  that,"  he  said.  "But 
I  am  wrong,  inhospitable,  selfish  ;  my  complaints  trouble 
you,  and  you  cannot  eat.  Come,  come ;  let  me  carve 
another  bird,  this  is  cold." 

An  hour  after  this  Barbara  mounted  her  horse,  and  ac 
companied  by  her  old  guide  took  the  forest  path  again. 
As  the  night  came  on,  and  the  shadows  around  her  grew 
blacker  and  blacker,  though  the  tree  tops  were  aflame 
with  scarlet  and  gold,  she  became  conscious  of  some  strange 
companionship  in  the  woods.  Sometimes  it  seemed  as  if 
the  mellow  tread  of  hoofs  stole  up  from  the  recesses  of 
the  forest.  Then  she  could  hear  the  bend  and  sway  of 
branches  ;  and,  closer  still,  whispering  sounds  among  the 
leaves,  as  if  every  thing  around  her  were  full  of  active  life. 
What  these  signs  could  be  was  a  wonder  to  her;  neither 
restless  birds  nor  deer,  bounding  through  the  undergrowth 
in  flocks,  could  produce  a  noise  at  once  so  subdued  and 
persistent.  But  no  harm  came,  or  appeared  to  threaten 
her.  On  the  contrary,  legions  of  spirits  seemed  to  guard 
her  path  unseen.  It  was  dark  before  Barbara  came  out 
of  the  thick  of  the  forest,  and  made  her  way  to  the  farm 
house.  Up  to  the  very  margin  of  the  trees  these  whis 
pered  sounds  and  almost  inaudible  footsteps  accompanied 
her.  The  moment  Barbara's  feet  crossed  that  threshold 
hundreds  on  hundreds  of  human  beings  swarmed  out  of 
the  woods,  and  moved  noiselessly  toward  Jason  Brown's 
barn. 

A  crash,  as  of  broken  boards,  followed  by  a  low,  rattling 


284  THE     BEACON     FIRE. 

sound,  came  from  the  building.  Then,  as  each  man  filed 
by  the  door,  a  musket  was  placed  in  his  hand,  which  he 
carried  straight  to  the  woods,  following  the  warrior  who 
had  gone  before,  as  savages  tread  a  war-path,  it  was  the 
end  of  this  procession  that  Jason  Brown  had  seen,  coiling 
like  a  serpent  along  1hf>  edge  of  the  forest,  after  Barbara 
Stafford  came  forth  into  the  moonlight  on  her  white  horse 
and  rode  away.  Of  all  the  arms  secreted  in  the  barn,  not 
a  gun  was  left ;  even  the  boxes  were  carried  off  in 
fragments. 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

THE    BEACON    FIRE. 

BARBARA  rode  on  her  way,  altogether  unconscious  that 
the  woods  around  her  swarmed  with  armed  men,  who  had 
been  for  hours  following  her  at  a  distance.  But  all  at 
once  another  hoof-tread  sounded  in  her  path,  and  looking 
around  she  saw  young  Philip,  mounted  on  a  horse  that 
seemed  black  in  the  darkness,  riding  close  by  her  side, 
while  Wahpee  lagged  behind. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid  ;  I  have  been  near  you  all  the  time," 
said  the  young  horseman. 

The  woods  were  so  darK,-  except  where  the  light  of  a 
clear  moon  could  penetrate  to  the  path  she  rode  over,  that 
Barbara  was  glad  of  this  addition  to  her  escort.  So  they 
rode  on  together  at  a  quick  pace,  penetrating  more  and 
more  deeply  into  the  heart  of  the  wilderness.  The  hum 
and  rush  of  what  seemed  a  current  of  wind  in  the  distance 


THE     BEACON     FIRE.  285 

Ktill  haunted  her  way.  Sometimes  she  heard  the  crackling 
of  underbrush,  afar  off ;  but  these  sounds  were  so  continuous 
that  she  soon  ceased  to  regard  them.  Then,  for  a  mile  or 
two,  all  was  profound  stillness.  It  seemed  as  if  every 
living  thing  had  suddenly  dropped  to  sleep  upon  tJe 
earth,  and  in  the  leaves.  The  very  moonlight  ceased 
to  tremble  along  the  forest  turf,  for  the  branches  which 
had  sent  it  quivering  like  frost-work  around  her  path, 
hung  motionless  over  Barbara's  head. 

Over  the  soft  turf  the  three  horses  sped  till  the  moon 
went  down,  and  midnight  came  on.  Then,  all  at  once, 
the  woods  just  ahead  of  this  party  burst  into  sudden 
flame  ;  a  vivid  column  of  fire  shot  up  to  the  sky,  leaping, 
hissing,  and  rioting  along  the  sapless  boughs  of  a  dead 
pine-tree,  that  crowned  an  eminence  around  which  their 
path  lead.  Thus  the  blackness  of  night  was  swept  away, 
and  all  the  forest  trees  turned  of  a  rich,  golden  green,  in 
expressibly  beautiful. 

"We  are  near  the  encampment,"  said  Philip,  and  a 
proud  smile  lighted  his  face,  upon  which  the  sudden 
radiance  shone.  "  Ride  on,  dear  lady  ;  your  halting-place 
of  yesterday  is  but  just  ahead  :  that  flaming  pine-tree  will 
light  us  to  it.  This  time  you  will  find  it  filled  with 
warriors." 

The  horse  which  Philip  bestrode  leaped  forward  while 
he  was  speaking,  and  with  a  spirited  bound  Barbara's 
white  steed  sprang  after  him. 

Directly  they  came  in  sight  of  the  clearing,  illuminated 
by  the  burning  pine,  which,  uplifted  by  a  ledge  of  rocks 
from  a  level  with  the  forest,  towered  behind  it  like  a  steeple 
of  quivering  fire.  Bathed  in  this  golden  light  Barbara 
saw  the  turfy  mound  on  which  she  had  taken  that  noonday 
repast,  and  under  it  the  miniature  lake  with  all  its  crystal 


286  THE     BEACON      F1RX. 

waves  flame-tinted  by  the  fire.  The  sparks,  which  fell  in 
a  perpetual  storm  from  that  burning  tree,  seemed  eddying 
and  shimmering  in  the  depth  of  its  waters,  and  the  willows 
which  drooped  over  them  were  of  a  rich  luminous  green 
that  quivered  with  every  stir  of  the  wind. 

The  larger  clearing  was  less  broadly  in  the  light,  bu*. 
that  presented  one  of  the  grandest  scenes  that  human  eye 
ever  dwelt  upon.  There,  swarming,  jostling,  heaving  to 
gether  in  gorgeous  masses,  a  multitude  of  savages 
crowded  the  open  space.  Within  the  glow  of  that  mighty 
council  fire  the  scattered  tribe  of  the  Pomperoags  had 
gathered  to  meet  the  son  of  their  slain  king.  Burning 
with  war  paint,  and  resplendent  with  barbarous  orna 
ments,  they  turned  the  sweet  rural  scene  of  the  morning 
into  a  war  camp  so  wild  and  picturesque  that  the  lady 
uttered  a  cry  of  astonishment  when  she  came  thus  sud 
denly  upon  it. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,"  said  Philip,  reining  in  his  horse 
and  bending  a  triumphant  look  upon  his  forced  guest. 
"You  are  safe  here.  Keep  close  to  my  side,  and  I  will 
show  you  how  hard  it  is  to  subjugate  a  brave  people." 

Barbara  drew  her  rein  tight :  this  scene,  so  grandly 
beautiful,  the  passionate  eloquence  in  her  companion's 
look  and  voice,  aroused  all  the  enthusiasm  of  her  nature. 

"  Ride  on  ;  I  will  follow  ;"  she  said. 

With  grave  dignity,  and  curbing  the  heroic  fire  that 
burned  in  his  eyes,  the  young  man  advanced  into  the 
clearing.  Barbara  followexl.  threading  her  way  through 
crowds  of  armed  warriors,  some  standing  in  groups, 
others  sitting  on  the  half-illuminated  pvvard,  while  the 
edges  of  the  forest  swarmed  with  savage  forms  ;  for  the 
multitude  gathering  into  that  spot  had  already  overrun 
the  open  space,  and  wa?  crowded  back  into  the  woods. 


THE     BEACON     FIRE.  287 

Barbara  drew  up  her  horse  on  the  margin  of  the  lake, 
where  she  sat,  like  an  equestrian  statue,  under  the  willows. 
Philip  rode  directly  up  the  mound,  and  as  the  hoofs  of  his 
war-horse  struck  the  rock  at  its  summit,  called  out  in  a 
loud,  ringing  voice  that  penetrated  every  nook  and  corner 
of  the  encampment — 

"  Chiefs  and  warriors,  Metacomet,  the  son  of  King 
Philip,  has  asked  the  people  of  his  tribe  to  come  hither 
that  he  may  hold  a  talk  with  them.  He  is  here." 

The  young  man's  face  and  figure  were  thrown  into  splen 
did  relief  by  the  fire  light.  His  dress,  savage  only  where 
it  could  be  made  picturesque,  gave  kingly  dignity  to  his 
presence.  The  eagle's  plume,  that  proclaimed  him  chief, 
rose  from  a  cap  of  crimson  cloth,  from  under  which  his 
bright  hair  swept  in  curling  waves.  The  horse  stood 
motionless,  his  neck  arched  pr.»udly,  his  wild  eyes  aglow 
with  animal  fire. 

While  Philip's  voice  was  yet  vibrating  through  those 
savage  hearts,  a  line  of  warriors,  laden  down  with  arms, 
defiled  out  of  some  unseen  path  of  the  forest,  and  belted 
the  mound  in  with  a  triple  wall  of  braves,  which  bristled 
so  thickly  with  pikes  and  bayonets  that  the  men  who  bore 
them  were  almost  invisible. 

As  the  fiery  pine  flamed  skyward  and  flashed  on  this- 
bristling  steel,  rank  after  rank  of  savages,  concealed  in  the 
woods,  pressed  into  the  light,  till  the  whole  clearing  \va.s 
alive  with  Indians,  some  armed  for  the  war-path,  others 
bearing  calumets,  doubtful  if  they  had  been  summoned 
from  their  hiding  places  in  the  forest  to  hold  council  or 
sound  a  war-whoop.  But  the  whole  multitude  was  ready 
for  either,  and  a  sea  of  dusky  faces  was  uplifted  to  the 
young  chief  in  stern  attention. 

"  If  there  lives  a  warrior  who  knew  Philip  when  he 
18 


288  THE     BTACON     FIRE. 

was  king  and  chief  of  tbo  Pcraperoags,  let  him  stop 
forth,  look  on  this  face  and  eay  if  it  is  not  his  son  who 
talks  with  you  ?" 

Thus  the  young  Metacomet  addressed  the  throng  of 
savages  as  they  swarmed  in  from  the  forest. 

Two  old  .medicine-men  came  out  of  the  ranks  and 
passed  through  a  lane  of  bayonets  crowded  back  to  give 
them  free  passage.  They  went  close  up  to  Philip,  and, 
shading  their  eyes  from  the  hot  light,  searched  his  face 
with  keen  glances.  They  fell  back  satisfied,  and,  so  far 
as  their  feteble  voices  could  reach,  the  savages  heard  this 
curt  decision : 

"  His  face  does  not  lie." 

Hear  a  low  shout,  or  rather  groan,  of  approval,  ran 
through  those  savage  ranks  and  died  away  in  the  forest. 
Again  Metacomet  turned  to  the  crowd. 

"  Warriors,  I  have  come  back  from  across  tbe  great 
waters  with  the  heart  of  King  Philip  beating  loud  in  my 
bosom.  He  died  fighting  for  his  people.  So  will  I,  or  set 
them  free,  with  broader  hunting-grounds  than  the}  ever 
trod,  and  richer  cornfields  than  their  enemies  have  leained 
to  plant.  When  King  Philip  died,  his  enemies  laughed,  Uko 
cowards,  for  they  knew  that  a  great  warrior  had  falle  v 
such  as  will  never  tread  their  cornfields,  though  they  plat 
them  over  our  fathers'  graves  ten  thousand  years.  Whei 
he  fell,  the  Pomperoags  were  a  conquered  people,  not  from 
lack  of  bravery,  but  because  the  white  man's  cunning  was 
more  powerful  than  the  strong  arms  of  all  our  warriors, 
with  the  bravest  man  that  ever  lived  at  their  head. 

"  Warriors,  your  king,  betrayed  by  a  traitor,  hunted 
down  like  a  wild  beast,  was  murdered.  His  sou  seized  the 
rifle  as  it  fell  from  his  hand  and  sent  its  last  bullet  through 
the  brain  of  a  white  soldier,  who  attempted  to  drag  him 


THE     BEACON     FIRK.  289 

away  from  his  dying  father.  When  he  was  disarmed, 
bleeding,  desperate,  they  seized  upon  him.  Warriors,  I 
see  by  the  fire  in  those  eyes  and  the  grip  of  those  hands 
that  no  one  of  you  has  forgotten  that  story.  The  captors 
of  this  wretched  boy  sold  him  into  slavery.  They  chained 
his  limbs  and  gave  him  over  to  the  lash — sent  him  under 
the  hot  sun  to  work  like  a  beast  of  burden.  He  did  work 
and  he  suffered,  but  slavery  never  reached  the  soul  of  Meta- 
comet — that  forever  turned  back  to  his  people.  Still  he  must 
have  died  like  a  brute  beast,  worn  out  with  toil,  but  for  the 
woman  who  sits  yonder  with  her  face  turned  this  way  in 
wonder  at  what  she  sees.  She  came  to  the  island  where 
he  toiled  under  the  lash,  and  saw  how  wretched  he  was. 
With  her  gold  she  broke  his  chains.  With  her  smiles  she 
cured  his  wounded  heart.  She  taught  him  how  to  think, 
and  out  of  that  came  a  power  which  turned  thought  into 
a  great  purpose,  which  has  never  left  his  brain  a  moment 
from  that  day  to  this. 

"  He  went  across  the  great  waters,  and  learned  all  the 
cunning  secrets  with  which  our  enemies  conquered  the  red 
man.  He  searched  out  the  wonderful  power  which 
conquers  without  fighting.  He  learned  that  knowledge 
is  more  powerful  than  the  tomahawk,  and  swifter  than  a 
rifle  bullet.  He  learned  that  white  men  cut  eagle  plumes 
into  pens,  and  with  their  sharp  points  send  out  thoughts 
like  arrows,  striking  whole  tribes  at  once. 

"Warriors,  with  this  knowledge  the  son  of  King 
Philip  will  give  force  to  your  strong  arms.  This  night 
swift  runners  shall  be  on  their  way  to  friendly  nations 
along  the  coast,  and  the  great  hunting-grounds  on  the  big 
lakes.  The  thought  that  speaks  here  will  run  as  tire 
leaps  along  yonder  dead  tree,  burning  up  the  hate  that  we 
have  felt  for  each  other,  and  linking  us,  tribe  to  tribe, 


THE     BEACON     FIRK. 

nation  to  nation,  till  the  coast  is  lighted  by  oue  belt  of 
council  fires,  our  forests  threaded  with  war-paths,  and 
the  fields,  cleared  by  our  enemies,  grow  corn  for  the  Indian 
alone.  Warriors,  has  the  son  of  your  ;hief  spoken 
well  ?" 

A  groan  of  general  assent  once  more  ran  hoarse! v 
through  that  savage  multitude,  dying  away  in  the  depths 
of  the  forest.  Again  Metncomet  spoke  : 

"Warriors,  like  the  son  of  King  Philip  you  have  been 
slaves.  The  whites  have  taken  away  your  rifles,  and 
driven  you  into  holes  and  corners  to  hide  like  foxes  when 
the  dogs  are  out.  But  I  have  brought  muskets  from  over 
the  great  waters,  and  sharp  spears  that  kill  without 
leaving  the  hand.  Powder  and  lead  we  have  in  plenty, 
hidden  away  in  dry  caves  which  our  foe  can  never 
find." 

Philip  turned  to  the  Indians  that  surrounded  him  closest 
standing  under  a  forest  of  bayonets.  Some  of  these  men 
Carried  two  muskets  and  a  spear,  some  more. 

"  Stack  your  guns,"  he  commanded. 

Instantly,  and  with  great  precision,  the  savages  stepped 
forward  and  stacked  their  weapons.  These  men  had  been 
for  weeks  drilled  by  their  young  leader,  and  were  quick 
to  learn.  Philip  guided  his  horse  through  the  bristling 
weapons,  and  rode  up  to  Barbara,  where  she  sat  pale  with 
excitement  and  thrilled  with  vague  terror. 

"  Lady,"  he  said,  "  can  you  forgive  the  use  to  which  I 
have  applied  your  bounty-?  During  all  these  years,  I 
have  been  hoarding  up  the  gold  of  which  you  were  so 
lavish,  for  this  purpose  alone — '  To  free  his  father's 
people,  Philip  consented  to  be  a  beggar  after  he  ceased  to 
vork  as  a  slave.'  " 

"  Great  heavens  !  and  have  I  done  this  ?"  cried  Barbara, 


THE      BEACON     FIRE.  291 

violently  agitated.  "  God  forgive  me  if  my  kind  intent 
leads  to  bloodshed." 

"  It  shall  lead  a  brave  people  to  freedom  !  Oh,  lady, 
regret  nothing  that  you  have  done.  Never  on  the  earth 
did  gold  perform  a  .more  holy  work." 

Barbara  made  no  answer  :  she  was  appalled  into  silence 
by  what  she  saw  and  heard. 

Philip  took  hold  of  her  bridle-rein  gently,  and  turned 
her  horse  from  the  lake. 

"  Let  the  warriors  see  your  face,  lady,"  he  said  :  "dan 
gerous  times  are  coming  on  and  it  is  well  that  they  should 
know  to  whom  their  protection  is  promised." 

Barbara  made  no  resistance,  but  she  trembled  on  her 
saddle.  As  her  horse  stood  side  by  side  with  that  of 
Philip  on  the  mound,  a  crowd  of  dusky  faces  was  up 
lifted  to  hers,  and  she  grew  pale  under  the  wild  light  of  a 
thousand  burning  eyes  that  seemed  piercing  her  like 
arrows. 

"  Braves,"  said  Philip,  and  his  voice  sounded  full  and 
clear  as  a  trumpet,  "look  upon  this  lady,  and  remember 
that  so  long  as  a  man  of  our  tribe  lives  she  is  his  charge. 
The  white  man  may  yet  become  her  foe  as  he  is  ours. 
She  may  be  driven  into  the  woods,  as  other  women  have 
been,  but  I  charge  you,  wherever  she  is  t'nund,  in  forest 
or  settlement,  obey  her  and  guard  her  as  if  she  were  a 
prophet  of  our  people." 

The  groan  of  approval  that  followed  this  speech  swelled 
nlmost  into  a  shout,  and  went  rolling  off  into  the  forest 
like  the  smothered  howl  of  wild  beasts. 

Terrified  and  distressed,  Barbara  pleaded  with  the 
young  chief  to  send  her  away.  Her  face  was  white,  her 
lips  trembled  as  she  spoke.  She  was  completely  over 
come  by  the  shock  of  this  unexpected  scene. 


292  THE     BEACON     FIRE. 

"Braves,"  cried  Philip,  standing  up  in  his  stirrups 
"  on  this  spot,  where  he  was  born,  Metacomet  has  kindlec 
his  first  great  council-fire :  light  your  pipes  and  smoke 
while  he  rides  with  this  lady  on  her  way  through  the 
woods,  and  let  no  man  forget  that  from  this  hour  she  is  a 
daughter  of  our  tribe." 

Again  that  hoarse,  growl-like  shout  answered  as  he 
wished,  and  while  it  swelled  along  her  path  Barbara  rode 
from  the  encampment,  followed  by  Wahpee  and  acconi 
panied  by  Philip.  During  all  the  waning  night  he  kep 
by  her  side,  and  she  made  no  protest.  The  wild  grandeur 
of  the  scene  she  bad  left  still  impressed  her  with  awe  to 
which  she  could  give  no  words,  and  a  ride  of  so  many 
hours  had  almost  exhausted  her  strength  when  she  came 
to  the  encampment.  An  hour  before  dawn  Philip  left 
her  and  rode  back  to  the  beacon  fire  at  her  own  urgent 
request. 

The  first  flush  of  morning  was  scattering  rose  leaves  in 
the  east  and  turning  the  far-off  waves  to  liquid  opals  when 
Barbara  came  in  sight  of  Samuel  Parris's  dwelling.  She 
would  have  dismounted  within  the  shelter  of  the  trees,  but 
was  so  overcome  with  fatigue  that  it  seemed  impossible 
for  her  to  walk  across  the  open  space  that  lay  in  front  of 
the  meeting-house.  But  old  Wahpee  drew  up  his  horse 
and  motioned  obstinately  that  he  intended  to  go  no 
farther. 

But  what  shall  I  do  with  the  horse  ?"  questioned  the 
lady,  wearily. 

"  Turn  him  loose  :  he  will  know  Wahpee's  call,"  answerec 
the  Indian. 

Barbara  rode  on,  so  worn  and  weary  that  she  could  hardly 
keep  her  saddle. 

Elizabeth  Parris  was  looking  oui  of  her  bedroom  win- 


THE     BEACON      P  .    A  E.  293 

dow  and  marvelled  at  the  strange  Apparition  of  her 
father's  guest  on  a  horse  which  she  had  never  seen  before  ; 
but  Tituba  passed  the  threshold  of  her  room  that  moment, 
and  she  turned  to  answer  some  question  that  the  old 
woman  asked.  While  she  was  so  occupied  Barbara  de 
scended  from  her  horse.  Scarcely  had  her  foot  touched 
the  ground  when  the  creature  heard  a  shrill  whistle  from 
Wahpee  and  bounded  off  to  the  woods.  When  Elizabeth 
looked  out  of  the  window  a  few  moments  after,  Barbara 
Stafford  was  walking  slowly  toward  the  house,  but  there 
was  no  sign  of  the  white  horse  ;  at  which  the  young  girl 
drew  her  breath  painfully,  and  sunk  to  a  chair  shocked 
with  an  awful  dread. 

"  Tituba  !  Tituba  !" 

The  old  woman,  who  was  half-way  down-stairs,  came 
back  again,  alarmed  by  that  sharp  cry. 

"  Tituba,  you  told  me  that  Mistress  Barbara  Stafford 
was  ill  and  wished  to  be  left  alone." 

"  So  she  is,"  answered  the  old  woman,  entering  the 
room  and  closing  the  door  after  her. 

"  But  I  saw  her  just  now." 

"  Saw  her,  Miss  Lizzybeth  !"  answered  the  Indian,  listen 
ing  keenly  to  a  rustling  sound  that  came  from  the  stairs. 
"  Saw  her  !  why  everybody  is  asleep  in  the  house.  What 
did  you  get  up  for,  child  ?" 

"  Oh,  Tituba,  I  am  so  restless  !  There  is  something 
strange,  terrible,  going  on  in  this  house.  What  is  the 
matter  with  Abby  ?  What  keeps  this  woman  here  when 
nobody  wants  her  ?  Is  she  truly  ill  ?  When  did  you  see 
her  last  ?" 

"  This  very  morning,"  asserted  Tituba,  who  had  in  trutu 
seen  Barbara  near  the  door,  and  now  heard  her  moving  in 
the  back  room. 


294  THE     BEACON     FIRE. 

Elizabeth  loaned  her  head  on  one  hand  as  if  some  dis 
tressing  thought  pained  her. 

•'  Strange  !  strange  1"  she  muttered. 

"Do  you  want  me  any  longer?"  asked  the  Indian  still 
listening  keenly. 

"  No.  Yes,  Tituba,  don't  go  down  yet.  Where  is 
Abby  ?» 

"  In  bed  and  sound  asleep." 

"  How  can  she  sleep  away  from  me  ?  Oh,  Tituba ! 
Tituba  !  I  am  so  lonesome." 

Tituba  went  close  to  her  young  mistress,  and  kneeling 
down  received  that  drooping  head  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Come  close,  Tituba.  Oh,  how  I  want  nay  mother 
now  !" 

This  cry  of  nature  touched  old  Tituba's  heart,  but  she 
had  no  words. 

Elizabeth  lifted  her  face  and  searched  those  withered 
features  with  her  beautiful  eyes. 

"  Tituba,  just  as  sure  as  I  live,  Barbara  Stafford  sat  out 
yonder  on  a  white  horse  only  a  little  while  ago.  The 
horse  vanished.  Then  I  saw  her  on  foot  near  the  door," 
she  said  wildly.  "  What  does  it  mean  ?  What  can  it 
mean  ?" 

The  old  woman  made  vague  efforts  to  caress  the  girl, 
but  said  nothing.  At  last  Elizabeth  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"Are  you  speaking  truth,  Tituba?"  she  exclaimed,  "or 
am  I  bewitched  ?" 

The  last  words  of  this  sentence  were  uttered  in  a 
whisper :  even  the  word  witchcraft  was  full  of  awe  to  that 
young  heart.  Then,  struck  with  a  sudden  resolution,  she 
tlung  the  door  open.  "  I  will  see  for  myself!  I  will  see 
for  myself!" 

She  went  out  into  the  passage,  opened  the  door  of  Bar- 


ALL     OR     NOTHING.  295 

bara  Stafford's  room  and  stole  in  on  tip-toe,  holding  her 
breath.  Barbara  Stafford  was  in  bed — sound  asleep. 
The  moment  her  head  touched  that  pillow  she  had  fallen 
into  the  death-like  slumber  which  follows  extreme  fatigue. 
Her  garments  lay  in  a  heap  on  the  floor,  save  the  scarlet 
cloak,  which  hung  in  its  usual  place  against  the  wall. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

ALL  OR  NOTHING. 

THE  third  week  after  Samuel  Parris's  return  from 
Boston,  Norman  Lovel  arrived  at  his  house.  When  we 
first  met  this  young  man  he  had  the  face  of  an  angel  and 
the  impulsive  manners  of  a  child ;  even  then  he  possessed 
a  depth  and  earnestness  of  feeling  which  only  broke  out 
when  the  occasion  was  important  enough  to  draw  forth 
high  and  brave  qualities. 

But  a  few  weeks  of  thoughtful  experience  had  changed 
him  greatly.  He  had  all  at  once  taken  a  leap  into  man 
hood.  The  bloom  and  grace  of  extreme  youth  had 
risen  into  the  calm  dignity  of  quiet  self-reliance.  This 
was  a  result  most  likely  to  follow  the  young  man's  inti 
mate  companionship  with  a  woman  like  Barbara  Stafford, 
who  always  gave  to  others  the  self-respect  which  never 
forsook  herself. 

When  Elizabeth  saw  the  young  man  coming,  she  forgot 
all  coldness,  and  uttering  a  joyful  cry,  ran  into  the  little 


L'H)  ALL     OR     NOTHING. 

garret  room,  where  Abby  Williams  sat  brooding  over  her 
thoughts. 

"  Oh,  Abby  1  dear,  dear  Abby  !  he  has  come  !  Norman  is 
here  !  Run  and  look  at  him  as  he  dismounts.  Then  say 
if  he  is  not  the  brightest,  the  handsomest — oh,  do  come  !" 

In  her  eagerness,  she  almost  lifted  Abby  from  her  seat 
on  the  bed,  and  kissed  her  averted  face  again  and  again. 
Abby  was  taken  by  surprise  :  her  heart  gave  a  wild  leap, 
and  her  cheeks  grew  red  and  warm.  The  good,  true 
heart  for  a  moment  flung  off  its  bitter  load. 

They  crossed  the  garret,  each  with  an  arm  girding  the 
other's  waist,  and  stood  by  the  window,  while  the  young 
man  dismounted.  Abby  could  not  feel  that  young  heart 
beating  and  fluttering  against  her  own  without  a  thrill 
of  warm  sympathy,  and  for  a  little  time  the  old  love 
triumphed. 

"  Stand  back  a  little,  just  a  step,  cousin  Abby,  or  he 
will  see  us  watching  him,"  cried  Elizabeth,  blushing 
crimson  as  the  fear  crossed  her  mind. 

"  There  now— ah  !" 

Elizabeth  gave  a  start,  and,  forgetting  her  late  precau 
tion,  drew  close  to  the  window.  The  young  man  had 
sprung  from  his  saddle,  and  was  moving  eagerly  toward 
the  doorstep,  on  which  Barbara  Stafford  seemed  to  be 
waiting  for  him.  The  sound  of  his  voice,  clear  and  full 
of  glad  surprise,  rang  up  to  the  two  girls  where  they 
stood. 

"  You  here,  lady — oh,  if  you  only  knew  how  anxious 
we  have  been,  how  lonely  the  house  was  after  you  left  so 
strangely.  The  governor  has  scarcely  spoken  since,  ex 
cept  on  state  affairs — and  as  for  Lady  Phipps,  she  moves 
about  like  a  shadow.  Somehow  all  the  sunshine  went  out 
when  you  disappea-ed." 


ALL     OB     NOTHING. 

Barbara  Stafford  answered,  in  a  constrained  voice,  but 
with  gentleness, 

"  I  have  a  few  weeks  to  wait,  before  the  ship  goes  out. 
My  business  in  this  land  is  accomplished.  I  only  wanted 
some  place  to  rest  in,  till  the  time  came,  and  was  reluctant 
to  burden  the  governor's  hospitality  for  so  long  a  time. 
Avoiding  a  formal  farewell  I  found  my  way  here,  knowing 
that  the  good  minister  would  give  me  shelter." 

"  Oh,  but  we  have  been  so  troubled  at  your  sudden  dis 
appearance  :  it  was  very  cruel." 

"  Was  there  any  one  who  felt  my  loss  ?"  asked  Barbara, 
with  a  thrill  of  tenderness  in  her  voice.  "  Who  cared  to 
inquire  if  I  was  dead  or  alive  ?" 

"  You  ask  that  question  in  earnest  ?  I  will  not  believe 
it.  How  little  you  knew  of  the  friendship,  the  love  you 
abandoned  !" 

These  words  rose  to  the  window  less  distinctly  than  the 
others  had  done  ;  but  Abby  felt  the  form,  |till  encircled  by 
her  arm,  waver  as  if  about  to  fall. 

"  Listen — listen,"  she  said,  "  it  is  not  of  himself  he 
speaks." 

Elizabeth  did  not  answer.  Her  breath  was  hushed. 
With  all  her  soul  she  listened  for  the  next  words.  They 
came  like  a  gush  of  bright  waters. 

"  But  now  that  I  find  you  safe,  and  have  good  tidings 
to  carry  back  to  Sir  William  and  Lady  Phipps,  I  will  pass 
in,  lady,  for  I  must  see  another  before  my  hard  gallop  is 
quite  rewarded.  Surely,  Miss  Parris  is  not  away  from 
home,  or  ill  ?" 

"  He  thinks  of  you — he  inquires  for  you  !"  whispered 
Abby.  "  It  was  surprise,  only  surprise,  that  kept  him  at 
the  door  so  long." 

"  I  will  go  down.     Shall  I  go  down  at  once  ?     Dear 


298  ALL     OB     NOTHING. 

cousin,  tell  me — don't  let  me  go  if  it  is  unmaidenly,  or  *f 
you  think  he  has  been  too  cold.  Shall  I  go,  cousin 
Abby  ?" 

"  Yes,  go,"  answered  Abby  Williams,  withdrawing  her 
arm.  "  He  is  waiting  for  you  !" 

Elizabeth  smoothed  her  hair  with  both  hands,  looked 
shyly  at  her  cousin  as  she  turned  from  the  little  mirror, 
and  glided  away.  She  entered  the  lower  hall ;  there 
between  her  and  her  lover  stood  Barbara  Stafford,  with 
the  sunshine  on  her  head,  but  casting  a  dark  shadow  across 
the  door-sill.  So  the  young  people  met  with  constraint, 
and  each  thought  the  other  cold. 

Barbara  Stafford  glided  away  when  she  saw  Elizabeth, 
and  bent  her  course  to  the  sea-shore.  Young  Lovel 
watched  her,  with  a  long,  earnest  look,  and  when  she  dis 
appeared  behind  a  grove  of  orchard  trees  he  sighed 
deeply,  and  fell  into  thought.  Elizabeth  stood  on  the 
threshold,  leaning  against  the  mouldings  of  the  door. 
Her  cheek  grew  red,  and  she  began  to  tremble  beneath 
the  rush  of  a  terrible  idea,  that  took  distinct  form  on  that 
fatal  moment. 

"  Strange,  strange  woman  !"  muttered  the  youth.  "  By 
what  power  does  she  drain  the  heart  of  all  thoughts  that 
do  not  belong  to  herself?" 

Elizabeth  drew  back  keenly  disappointed.  The  young 
man  seemed  unconscious  of  her  presence  ;  yet  they  had 
not  seen  each  other  for  weeks.  She  turned  proudly,  and 
went  into  the  house.  The"-  movement  aroused  Lovel. 
He  withdrew  his  eyes  from  the  retreating  form  of  Barbara 
Stafford,  to  which  they  seemed  drawn  by  some  fascination, 
and  followed  the  young  girl,  unconscious  that  he  had  done 
any  thing  to  wound  or  offend  her. 

Elizabeth  sat  down  in  the  oaken  chair,  that  had  belonged 


TOWARD     THE     SHORE.  299 

to  her  mother.     She  could  not  understand  the  iron  feelings 
that  crept  over  her. 

"  Has  that  woman's  shadow  chilled  all  the  love  from 
my  heart  as  well  as  his  ?"  she  said  to  herself.  "Am  I 
too  bewitched  ?" 


CHAPTER    XXXIV. 

TOWARD   THE   SHORE. 

THIS  word  made  the  idea,  that  had  haunted  her  so 
long,  painfully  tangible.  The  young  girl  began  to  shudder 
at  the  thoughts  that  crowded  upon  her.  All  the  feelings, 
connected  with  her  love  of  this  young  man,  had  been 
strange  from  the  first.  So  much  of  pain  was  mingled 
with  its  sweetness,  so  much  of  passion,  temper,  and  the 
bitter  tears  which  spring  from  both,  that  she  could  not 
comprehend  them.  The  very  development  of  her  own 
nature,  under  the  workings  of  a  passion  utterly  unknown 
to  her  before,  had  something  mysterious  in  it,  which 
aroused  ideas  of  some  supernatural  power,  checking  and 
thwarting  it  into  a  wild  pain. 

Barbara  Stafford  bad  undoubtedly  connected  herself 
with  the  evil  power,  which  sometimes  held  her  heart 
girded  like  a  vice,  and  again  forced  the  young  creature  to 
throw  herself  upon  the  woman's  bosom  in  a  paroxysm  of 
regretful  tenderness. 

Wky  was  she  to  love  or  hate  Barbara  Stafford,  a 
woman  she  had  never  seen  till  within  the  last  few  weeks — 
a  stranger  wrecked  upon  the  shore,  and  cast  up,  as  it 


300  TOWARD     THE     SHORE. 

were,  from  the  foam  of  the  ocean,  without  a  history,  and 
it  might  prove  without  a  true  name.  If  it  must  be  that 
their  destinies  jostled  each  other,  why  could  it  not  be  all 
love  or  entire  hate  ? 

Elizabeth  Parris  sat  still,  thinking  these  things  over, 
while  Norman  Lovel  was  talking  to  ner  of  the  friends 
she  had  so  lately  left.  He  brought  a  score  of  sweet 
messages  from  Lady  Phipps,  and  kindly  remembrances 
from  the  governor  himself.  He  spoke  of  the  loneliness 
that  fell  upon  the  family  when  its  guests  had  departed ; 
but  after  his  words  to  Barbara  Stafford,  any  thing  he 
could  say  to  her  seemed  cold  and  common-place.  With 
out  knowing  it,  Elizabeth  was  possessed  of  that  proud 
hunger,  which  every  true  woman  feels,  when  she  really 
loves — that  craving  desire  to  be  all  or  nothing,  which 
makes  so  many  noble  hearts  miserable. 

Yes,  Elizabeth  would  be  all  to  Norman  Lovel,  or  she 
would  be  nothing.  She  did  not  say  these  words,  or  think 
these  thoughts  ;  but  the  resolution  rose  and  burned  in  her 
heart  like  a  fire.  Filled  with  the  tumult  of  these  sensa 
tions,  she  did  not  heed  what  her  lover  was  saying.  His 
voice  seemed  to  come  from  afar  off ;  and  as  for  the  mean 
ing  of  bis  speech,  her  ears  refused  to  drink  it  in. 

Norman  saw  her  distraction,  and  was  amazed  by  it. 
Had  he  ridden  fifteen  miles  through  the  woods,  almost  oa 
an  unbroken  gallop,  to  be  met  with  half  looks,  and  greeted 
only  by  monosyllables  ?  The  young  man  took  fire  at 
once.  He  would  give  Elizabeth  plenty  of  time  to  collect 
her  thoughts.  His  kindest  words  should  no  longer  be 
wasted  on  a  sullen  statue. 

In  this  heat  of  temper,  Norman  took  up  his  hat  and  went 
out.  Elizabeth  started,  looked  wildly  over  her  shoulder, 
and  tried  to  call  him  back ;  but  her  voice  was  husky,  and 


TOWARD     THE      SHORE.  301 

refused  utterance  ;  she  could  neither  speak  nor  move,  till 
he  had  crossed  the  threshold,  and  was  gone.  For  some 
moments  she  sat  motionless.  It  seemed  as  if  her  limbs 
were  girded  to  the  chair.  She  thought  with  bitterness 
that  the  power  of  Barbara  Stafford's  evil  will  held  her 
tight,  when  it  was  but  the  reaction  of  her  own  over 
wrought  feelings.  The  fiend  Jealousy  was  torturing  her. 

Elizabeth  broke  free  from  this  painful  thrall,  started  up, 
and  went  to  the  door,  shading  her  eyes  with  one  hand  as 
she  looked  forth  toward  the  ocean.  It  lay  in  the  distance, 
blue  and  sparkling,  like  ridges  and  waves  of  sapphire, 
breaking  through  streams  of  diamond  dust.  The  glory 
of  the  sunshine  was  nothing  to  her.  She  turned  away, 
searching  the  shore  ;  there  she  saw  young  Lovel  walking 
rapidly  in  the  path  from  which  Barbara  Stafford  had  just 
disappeared. 

"  He  is  going  to  her  I  he  is  going  to  her  !"  cried  the 
young  girl,  pressing  one  hand  upon  her  forehead,  to  still  a 
thought  that  seemed  gnawing  at  her  brain  like  a  viper. 
"  She  has  charmed  him  away,  she  and  the  sweet-toned 
familiar,  that  whispers  in  her  voice,  and  looks  through 
those  velvet  eyes. — " 

"  Elizabeth,  child  !  Elizabeth  !" 

She  did  not  hear  the  voice  of  Tituba,  who  stood  in  the 
entry,  behind  her,  waiting  to  be  noticed. 

"  Child  !"  she  repeated,  touching  the  uplifted  arm  with 
her  finger,  "  child  !" 

Elizabeth  dropped  her  hand,  and  shrunk  away,  looking 
at  Tituba  suspiciously,  over  her  shoulder. 

"You  hurt  me,  old  Tituba.  Look — my  arm  is  black 
and  purple  where  the  marks  of  your  nails  have  been. 
She  has  taught  you  this,  old  woman.  I  have  seen  her  in 
the  kitchen,  with  fresh  herbs,  which  you  made  into  tea ; 


302  TOWARD      THE      SHORE. 

and  roots,  which  she  dug  up  with  a  dagger  from  among 
drifts  of  seaweed  on  the  shore.  Keep  away  from  me,  old 
woman  ;  my  flesh  creeps  as  you  come  near." 

Old  Tituba  was  confounded.  She  had  only  come  to 
consult  her  young  mistress  on  the  propriety  of  killing  a 
chicken,  and  making  up  a  batch  of  blackberry  pies,  if  the 
young  gentleman  was  likely  to  stay  over  night ;  and  this 
charge  of  hurting  the  creature  whom  she  loved  better, 
almost,  than  any  thing  on  earth,  struck  her  dumb.  At 
length  she  spoke. 

"  You  are  sick,  Miss  Lizzybeth  ;  something  dreadful  is 
the  matter,  or  you'd  never  say  this  to  old  Tituba.  Go  up 
stairs,  and  lie  down  while  I  make  some  tea." 

"No;  you  gave  me  herb  drink  last  night,  and  once 
before  this  week.  I  will  not  take  that  drink  from  any 
one." 

"Why,  child?" 

"  Hush,  Tituba,  hush,  if  you  love  me  !  I  don't  mean  to 
be  cross:  but  my  head  is  full  of  awful  thoughts;  they 
make  me  say  cruel  things  even  to  poor  old  Tituba." 

"  The' poor  child — and  she  will  take  nothing,"  said  the 
old  woman,  while  her  face,  dark  and  wrinkled  like  a  dried 
peach,  began  to  work,  the  neares-t  approach  to  weeping 
her  Indian  blood  ever  permitted.  "  What  can  I  do  ? 
Where  is  the  young  brave  ?" 

"Yonder,"  said  Elizabeth,  bitterly,  "going  toward  the 
sea !" 

"  Shall  I  bring  him  back  ?-_  Shall  I  tell  him  ne  has  left 
your  heart  full  of  tears  ?" 

Tituba  clenched  her  little  withered  hands  with  energy, 
as  if  she  were  about  to  give  a  leap,  and  start  off  at  full 
speed,  while  her  sharp  eyes  followed  the  retreating  figurt 
of  the  young  man.  But  Elizabeth  held  her  back. 


UNACCOUNTABLE     SYMPATHIES.       303 

"  No,  no.  See,  Abigail  is  coming  down.  I  will  tell  her. 
Abigail !  cousin  Abigail  !" 

But  Abigail  Williams,  who  had  been  so  caressing  and 
kind  half  an  hour  before,  came  into  the  passage  with  the 
dull,  heavy  frown  on  her  forehead  which  had  become 
habitual  now  ;  answering  her  cousin's  appeal  with  a  repul 
sive  motion  of  the  hand,  she  passed  by  her,  and  went  into 
the  open  air. 

The  sun  was  very  bright,  and  for  an  instant  she  stood 
upon  the  stepping-stone,  shading  her  eyes  with  one  hand, 
looking  first  toward  the  forest,  and  again,  with  more  lin 
gering  earnestness,  sweeping  the  horizon  with  her  gaze, 
where  the  sky  melted  into  the  ocean.  A  boat  lay  like  a 
speck  amid  the  brightness  of  the  water.  If  Abigail  had 
not  been  searching  for  it,  an  object  so  diminished  by  dis 
tance  would  have  escaped  observation.  But  she  saw  the 
floating  speck,  and,  without  a  look  or  word  for  those  she 
left  behind,  started  off  for  the  shore. 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 

UNACCOUNTABLE    SYMPATHIES. 

BARBARA  STAFFORD  sat  upon  the  roots  of  an  old  oak, 
that  held  the  edges  of  forest  turf  together,  just  where 
they  verged  into  the  white  sands  of  the  beach.  The 
woods  had  been  thinned  on' that  portion  of  the  coast,  and 
thfe  oak  stood  out  almost  alone,  amid  a  sea  of  whortleberry 
bushes,  ferns,  and  low-vinod  blackberries,  that  covered  the 


UNACCOUNTABLE     SYMPATHIES. 

sparse  soil  with  their  many-tinted  herbage.  Behind  her 
loomed  the  forest ;  before  her  rolled  the  ocean.  The  sun 
shine  lay  upon  both,  turning  one  to  sapphires,  the  other  to 
shifting  emeralds.  The  sunshine  lay  everywhere,  save  in 
her  own  heart — there  was  unutterably  darkened. 

I  do  not  say  that  all  this  brightness  in  nature  fell 
around  her  like  a  mockery ;  for  her  soul  was  too  heavy 
even  for  a  thought  of  external  objects.  It  is  only  sudden 
or  light  sorrows  that  shrink  and  thrill  to  outward  things. 
When  depression  becomes  the  habit  of  a  life,  it  weighs 
upon  the  existence,  as  stagnant  waters  sleep  in  a  landscape. 
When  they  are  disturbed,  miasma  starts  forth,  and  makes 
the  earth  feel  that  a  weight  is  forever  upon  its  bosom, 
whose  breath  is  poison,  which  no  power  can  fathom,  and 
brightness  can  warm. 

This  great  burden  lay  upon  Barbara  Stafford.     Had  the 
ocean  been   lashed  with  storms,  she  might  have  looked 
upon  it  in  awe,  for  she  was  a  woman  full  of  feminine 
timidity,  and  only  a  few  weeks  before  had  been  snatched 
from  the  waves  by  the  very  youth  from  whom  she 
just  parted.     She  was  thinking  of  the  youth,  but  not  of 
the  waves  from  which  he  had  rescued  her — thinking  of  hir 
with  vague  }rearnings  and  fond  regrets,  which  seemed  al 
of  human  tenderness  that  gleamed  across  the  desolation  of 
her  hopes.     She  felt  something  like  joy  singing  througt 
the  dreariness  of  her  life,  whenever  the  image  of  thisyounj 
man   presented   itself.     Why  was  it  ?  she  asked  herself 
again    and   again.     Were   the   blossoms   of  a   new   love 
springing  up  from  her  soul,  after  it  had  been  laid  waste  for 
so  many  years  ?     Had  the  ashes  of  dead  hopes  fertilized 
her  life  afresh,  that  she  should  feel  this  glow  of  affection, 
when  the  lad  spoke  or  looked  into  her  eyes  ? 

Barbara   was   no   girl   to  wave   these    questions  with 


UNACCOUNTABLE     SYMPATHIES.        305 

blushes.  She  knew  their  meaning  well,  and  searched  her 
own  heart  to  its  depths,  as  the  surgeon  probes  a  wound. 
The  unnaturalness  of  this  attachment  did  not  startle  her 
pride  as  at  first;  for  she  was  one  of  those  who  measure 
souls  by  their  capacity,  not  the  years  that  might  have 
fallen  upon  them.  Still  every  sensitive  feeling  was 
wounded  by  the  very  idea  of  love,  in  its  broadest  and 
most  beautiful  meaning,  as  connected  with  this  youth. 
Affection  deep  and  steadfast,  a  love  that  thrilled  her  with 
holy  impulses,  she  found ;  but  nothing  that  could  bring 
the  pure  matronly  blood  warmer  to  her  cheeks,  or  cause 
her  frauk  eyes  to  turn  aside  from  his  glances.  The  feel 
ings  that  she  was  forced  to  acknowledge  to  herself  were 
inexplicable,  for  gratitude  was  never  half  so  tender,  love 
never  in  a  degree  so  unselfish.  Barbara  had  never  expe 
rienced  the  sweet  worship  which  a  mother  feels  for  a  living 
child,  therefore  could  not  judge  how  far  these  sensations 
approached  that  most  holy  feeling ;  but  she  knew  that  the 
presence  of  this  strange  emotion  had  filled  her  with  ineffa 
ble  content.  The  hard  realities  of  her  condition  faded 
away  at  the  approach  of  this  young  man,  and  all  the 
gentle  sensations  of  her  youth  came  softly  back  across 
the  desert  of  her  life,  keeping  her  soul  from  the  despair 
that  for  a  time  had  threatened  it. 

She  was  thinking  of  the  youth,  nothing  else,  though  her 
eyes  gazed  wistfully  across  the  sea,  and  her  face  was 
thoughtful,  as  if  she  expected  some  pleasant  approach 
from  the  far-off  blue  of  the  deep.  So,  when  footsteps 
came  across  the  be-ach,  she  started,  and  the  wings  of  a 
brooding  dove  seemed  to  unfold  in  her  bosom  as  Norman 
Lovel  approached  and  seated  himself  on  a  fragment  of 
stone  at  her  feet. 

Barbara  could  not  resist  the  impulse,  but  laid  her  hand 


306        UNACCOUNTABLE     SYMPATHIES. 

caressingly  on  his  head,  burying  her  fingers  in  the  rich 
waves  of  his  hair. 

He  looked  up,  and  smiled.  This  gentle  caress  was 
pleasant,  after  the  coldness  with  which  Elizabeth  had 
driven  him  from  her  side. 

"  How  profoundly  you  were  thinking  !"  he  said.  "  I  was 
almost  afraid  to  disturb  you." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Barbara,  "  I  was  trying  to  find  out 
what  has  swept  so  much  of  the  darkness  from  my  life 
within  the  last  hour." 

"And  did  you  find  a  happy  conclusion  ?  I  hope  so,  for 
then  I  shall  think  that  some  pleasure  at  my  coming  was 
mingled  with  your  thoughts.  Oh,  dear  lady,  you  never 
will  know  how  keenly  we  felt  your  loss." 

"And  yet  I  am  a  stranger  to  you  all." 

"  Some  people  are  never  strangers.  I  feel  as  if  I  had 
known  you  from  the  cradle  up — as  if  my  happiness  would 
never  be  complete  if  you  were  away.  The  touch  of  your 
hand  soothes  me,  and  your  voice  stirs  my  heart,  like 
music  heard  before  thought  or  memory  comes.  When  I 
am  near  you,  a  solemn  gladness  quiets  me  into  a  very 
child.  Oh,  lady,  I  love  you  dearly." 

Barbara  did  not  start,  or  change  color.  This  language 
seemed  natural  to  her,  as  the  rush  of  the  waves  on  the 
beach.  She  simply  bent  down  and  laid  her  hand  on 
his  forehead.  He  drew  a  deep  breath  and  was  silent. 
The  smile  upon  his  lips  was  like  that  of  an  infant  Samuel 
when  he  prays. 

"  I  have  found  you  at  last ;  you  will  never,  never  leave 
us  again  !" 

"When  the  ship  sails  I  must  go  yonder,"  she  answered, 
pointing  seaward. 

"  To    England  !     Why  should    you   go  ?     Have    you 


UNACCOUNTABLE     SYMPATHIES.        307 

friends  there  more  dear  than  those  you  will  leave  behind  ?" 
questioned  the  you,th,  anxiously. 

"  I  have  no  friends  there,  but  many  duties,"  said  Bar 
bara,  and  her  voice  trembled  painfully.  "  When  I  leave 
these  shores,  every  living  being  that  I  love  will  be  left 
behind." 

"  Why  go,  then  ?  Why  abandon  those  who  regard  you 
tenderly,  for  a  land  that  contains  no  friends  ?" 

Barbara  turned  pale  as  she  looked  down  into  those 
beautiful,  eager  eyes. 

"Because,"  she  said,  extending  her  hand  toward  the 
ocean,  "  because  that  must  roll  between  us  and — and  this 
continent,  before  I  can  fall  into  the  heavy  rest,  which  is 
all  I  hope  or  ask  for  now." 

"  But  why  go  away  ?  This  is  a  new  country  ;  a  mind 
and  energy  like  yours  may  find  ample  scope  for  exertion 
here.  Become  the  missionary  of  intelligence.  We  have 
school-houses,  but  few  teachers.  What  grand  men  and 
noble  women  would  be  given  to  the  world,  from  a  teacher 
at  once  so  strong  and  so  gentle." 

Barbara  smiled  a  little  proudly.  The  idea  of  becoming 
a  school-teacher  in  one  of  the  colonies  had  evidently 
never  entered  her  mind. 

Norman  saw  the  smile  and  blushed. 

"  You  think  it  a  humble  means  of  good,"  he  said,  "  and 
are,  perhaps,  offended  with  me  for  naming  it.  But  Gov- 
'ernor  Phipps  thinks  it  a  calling  of  the  utmost  importance 
in  these  settlements.  He  says  that  the  man,  or  woman, 
who  gives  wisdom  and  Christianity  to  our  little  ones,  holds 
an  office  higher  than  that  of  any  judge  or  statesman  in  the 
land." 

Barbara  gazed  wistfully  in  Norman's  face,  while  he  was 
speaking.  An  earnest  gleam  came  into  her  oyes,  and  her 


308        UNACCOUNTABLE     SYMPATHIES. 

lips  began  to  quiver.  Why  was  her  voice  so  like  a 
hoarse  whisper  when  she  spoke  ? 

"Did — did  Governor  Phipps  speak  of  me  in  this  con 
nection  ?" 

"  No,  but  when  I  bad  been  speaking  of  you,  he  said  it, 
as  if  the  idea  came  with  your  name." 

Barbara  shook  her  head,  slowly  and  mournfully. 

"  It  can  never  happen.  This  land  holds  no  corner  of 
rest  for  me  now.  Here  is  struggle,  temptation,  bitter 
soul-strife ;  there,  is  rest,  that  leaden  rest,  which  comes 
when  there  is  nothing  to  hope  or  fear.  Oh,  my  young 
friend,  it  is  a  terrible  thing,  when  one  reaches  the  hill-tops 
of  life,  and  finds  a  broad,  ashen  desert  beyond,  with  a 
grave  on  the  other  side,  which  you  long  to  reach,  but 
must  not." 

"  But  surely  this  is  not  your  case,  lady  ?" 

"Alas  !  what  else  ?"  she  whispered,  casting  that  wistful 
look  seaward  again.  "  What  of  joy,  or  hope,  can  ever  come 
to  me  again  ?" 

"And  are  you  so  unhappy  ?"  questioned  the  youth, 
almost  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  Unhappy  !  I  do  not  know — but  let  us  talk  of  other 
things  :  this  fair  girl  Elizabeth." 

"  Do  not  speak  of  her — she  wounds  me  with  her  cold 
ness,  she  insults  me  with  suspicions — let  us  talk  of  any 
thing  rather  than  her." 

"But  she  loves  you,  for  all  that." 

"I  do  not  believe  it!"" cried  the  youth,  impetuously: 
"love  does  not  turn  a  maiden  into  stone,  when  a  true 
heart  appeals  to  hers.  You  would  not  repulse  me  one 
hour,  and  adore  me  the  next.  I  am  tired  of  girls !" 

Barbara  smiled,  as  if  the  prattle  of  an  infant  had  amused 
her. 


UNACCOUNTABLE     SYMPATHIES.       309 

"  Fiery  young  heart,"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  "  how  little  you  comprehend  the  feelings  that 
trouble  you  !" 

"  I  can  only  understand  how  much  sweeter  your  voice 
is  than  hers,  how  grand  your  words  are,  how  like  heaven 
the  earth  seems  when  you  permit  me  to  rest  as  I  do 
now  at  your  feet,  and  look  forth  on  the  ocean.  With 
you,  all  is  rest — with  her,  excitement,  discontent.  She 
does  not  love  me,  and  I  begin  to  think  that  I  do  not  love 
her." 

"Boy,  forbear.  This  is  madness.  Your  heart  does 
not  speak  out  here.  Such  impetuosity  will  end  in  evil. 
Check  it.  Your  wild  temper  belies  a  noble  nature.  Re 
member  Elizabeth  Parris  is  your  betrothed  wife  !" 

"  I  can  remember  nothing,  except  that  I  have  offended 
you,"  answered  the  youth,  passionately,  "and  I  would 
rather  die  here  at  your  feet." 

"Hush,"  said  Barbara,  "here  comes  Samuel  Parris. 
He  turns  this  way.  I  will  stroll  toward  the  beach,  while 
you  converse  with  him." 

"  Nay  !  I  will  follow  you." 

Barbara  had  arisen.  The  young  man  started  to  his  feet, 
and  prepared  to  walk  forward  with  her.  His  color  rose, 
and  a  glow  of  haughty  resentment  came  to  his  forehead 
as  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  Samuel  Parris,  who  was 
walking  quickly  toward  them,  while  his  face  lowered 
with  sombre  anxiety. 

"  Stop,"  cried  the  old  man,  lifting  his  staff.  "  Move  not 
to  the  right  or  the  left,  till  I  have  spoken  with  you  both, 
face  to  face." 

Barbara  Stafford  drew  her  proud  figure  to  its  height. 
There  was  something  too  imperative  in  his  command  for 
her  humble  endurance.  At  times,  blood,  that  seemed 


310  SOUL     TORTURES. 

born  of  emperors,  mantled  over  that  broad  forehead.     It 
rose  red  and  warm  now. 

Norman  Lovel  stood  by  her  side,  his  lips  curved,  his 
eyes  flashing  fire.  The  two  looked  strangely  akin  in  their 
haughty  astonishment,  as  that  voice  of  eommand  sought  to 
arrest  their  footsteps. 


SOUL    TORTURES. 

WHEN  Elizabeth  Parris  was  left  standing  on  the  door 
step,  and  saw  every  one  drift  toward  the  shore,  a  sensa 
tion  fell  upon  her,  so  strange  and  even  terrible,  that  she 
thought  herself  dying.  The  blood  seemed  to  stop  in  her 
veins,  blocking  up  all  the  avenues  of  life.  The  breath 
choked  up  her  throat,  and  from  heart  to  limb  she  seemed 
turning  to  stone.  During  some  heavy  minutes,  she  stood 
in  this  position,  like  a  thing  of  marble,  save  that  her  hair 
had  sunshine  in  it,  and  her  eyes  deepened  in  color  till  they 
seemed  black.  At  last  she  turned,  as  a  statue  might  have 
wheeled  from  its  base,  and  entered  the  house. 

A  little  wing  had  been  added  to  the  building,  in  which 
Samuel  Parris  kept  his  books,  and  wrote  his  discourses. 
It  was  dimly  lighted,  and  a  sombre  gloom  hung  about  it 
in  solemn  accordance  with  the  old  man's  habit  of  mind. 
Samuel  Parris  had  spent  much  time  in  this  apartment 
after  the  excitement  of  returning  home  ;  and  with  a  feeling 
of  gentle  complacency  was  looking  over  some  of  the 


SOUL    TORTURES.  311 

familiar  books  that  lay  on  the  table.  Engaged  with  these 
old  friends,  he  did  not  observe  when  the  door  opened,  and 
his  child  glided  through.  Her  small  band,  pale  as  wax, 
dropped  heavily  upon  the  open  page  he  was  reading,  first 
warned  him  of  the  dear  presence. 

The  old  man  gently  pushed  the  hand  aside. 

"  It  is  the  Holy  Bible,"  he  said,  in  explanation  of  the 
act. 

"  The  Bible,"  muttered  Elizabeth,  bending  down  and 
attempting  to  read.  But  the  words  all  ran  together  and 
melted  into  an  intangible  network  of  characters  under  her 
gaze.  She  started  back  with  a  moan  of  horror,  and  clasped 
both  hands  over  her  eyes. 

The  minister  looked  up  in  dumb  astonishment. 

"What — what  is  this?"  he  said,  greatly  troubled. 
"  What  have  I  done  to  make  you  moan  so  piteously, 
Elizabeth  ?" 

The  young  girl  dropped  her  hands  from  her  face,  and 
wrung  them  in  bitter  anguish. 

"  Father,  I  am  smitten  in  my  sight.  The  blood  is  frozen 
in  my  veins.  The  breath  settles  in  my  throat,  strangling 
me  when  I  speak.  I  scarcely  feel  your  touch.  I  cannot 
draw  a  deep  breath.  When  I  bend  my  looks  on  the 
Bible,  the  pages  are  striped  with  ragged,  black  lines,  as  if 
a  devil,  not  God,  had  written  it." 

"  My  child,  what  is  this  ?  A  little  while  ago  you  were 
quiet  and  cheerful.  What  disease  can  have  fallen  upon 
you  ?  What  evil  thing  has  touched  you  ?" 

She  fell  upon  her  knees,  grovelling  on  the  floor.  Her 
eyes  glittered  painfully,  her  lips  bluish  white. 

"  Father,  do  not  touch  me.  I  am  smitten.  Lo  I  I  am 
bewitched." 

The  old  man  began  to  tremble  in   all  his  limbs.     He 


312  SOUL     TORTURES. 

shrunk  away  from  his  child,  gazing  wildly  at  her,  as  some 
holy  man  might  watch  an  angel  changing  into  a  fiend 
before  his  eyes. 

"Elizabeth,  daughter  Elizabeth,"  he  cried,  "oh,  my 
God— my  God  1" 

She  bent  her  face  downward,  shrouding  it  with  her  gar 
ments,  sobbing  out, 

"  Do  not  touch  me,  father.  I  am  unholy — body  and 
soul  I  am  unholy.  God  blinds  my  sight  to  his  word. 
Fiery  fiends  have  tracked  their  footprints  over  His 
promises.  Oh,  me — oh.  me — the  curse  is  here  I" 

More  pale,  more  terribly  stricken  than  his  child,  the 
old  man  stood  up,  and,  clasping  his  thin  hands,  lifted  them 
slowly  to  heaven.  At  last  he  spoke,  in  a  voice  of  solemn 
command,  which  vibrated  to  the  poor  girl's  heart : 

"  Elizabeth  Parris,  rise  up,  and  say  unto  me,  who  ha3 
done  this  thing — whence  comes  thy  affliction  ?" 

Elizabeth  arose  very  slowly,  and  looked  her  father  in 
the  face. 

11  Come  and  see  I" 

Uttering  only  this  one  sentence,  she  led  the  way  out  of 
the  house  and  into  the  open  air.  On  she  sped,  through 
the  sunshine  and  along  by-paths,  toward  the  sea-shore, 
looking  over  her  shoulder  now  and  then  to  be  sure  that 
her  father  followed  close,  but  never  turning  aside  or 
speaking  a  word. 

At  last  she  came  out  upon  a  curve  of  the  beach,  within 
sight  of  the  oak  tree  under  which  Barbara  Stafford  was 
sitting  with  Norman  Lovel. 

"Behold  !"  she  said,  throwing  out  her  hand,  with  the 
look  and  gesture  of  a  priestess.  "Behold  the  strange 
woman,  Barbara  Stafford — the  evil  one  cast  forth  from 
the  depths  of  the  sea  to  torment  us.  Behold  the  WITCH  !" 


SOUL     TORTURES.  313 

After  the  young  girl  had  uttered  these  awful  words,  for 
awful  they  were  in  those  days,  a  dead  silence  fell  upon 
the  father  and  child.  At  last  they  both  turned  away, 
slowly  retraced  their  steps,  and  entered  the  house  together. 
When  they  were  alone  in  the  library,  the  minister  fell  into 
his  chair  and  began  to  weep — weep  -and  pray  with  a 
troubled  abruptness  that  proved  the  terrible  hold  with 
which  his  daughter's  charge  had  seized  upon  him.  He 
saw  now  the  complete  change  that  had  come  over  her, 
the  wildness  in  her  eyes,  the  deadly  white  of  her  face. 
The  inroads,  which  a  week  of  anxiety  had  made  upon  her 
person,  struck  him  with  consternation  and  irresistible 
belief.  What,  save  some  fiendish  influence,  could  have 
changed  the  rosy  bloom  of  her  youth  into  that  dull,  hope 
less  look  ? 

"  Kneel  down,"  he  said,  at  last,  "  Elizabeth,  my  child  ; 
for  if  all  the  evil  spirits  of  the  black  realm  have  entered 
that  form,  thou  art  yet  my  child.  Kneel  down,  and  with 
thy  hand  upon  the  Bible,  tell  me  how  this  strange  woman 
has  poisoned  thy  young  life  ;  tell  me  all,  that  I  may  ask 
the  Most  High  God  to  help  us  in  this  strait." 

Elizabeth  answered  more  consistently  than  her  state  of 
terror  would  seem  to  warrant.  She  had  evidently  thought 
deeply  on  the  matter,  and  reasoned  with  an  intellect  ren 
dered  keen  by  the  alarm  of  a  loving  heart.  She  was 
very  pale,  and  sharp,  nervous  quivers  shook  her  now  and 
then,  but  the  pretty  wilfulness  of  her  character  had  en 
tirely  disappeared.  She  was  like  a  priestess  preparing 
for  some  solemn  oracle. 

"  First,  let  me  ask  you,  father,  who  is  this  woman  whom 
you  and  Xorman  Lovel  dragged  up  from  the  depths  of  the 
sea  ?" 

"  In   truth    I   do  not   know,"   answered   the  minister, 


314  SOUL     TORTURES. 

greatly  troubled.  "  Did  I  not  tell  you,  Elizabeth,  that  it 
happened  on  the  second  day  of  my  arrival  in  Boston  ?" 
"  The  second  day ;  and  I  had  not  seen  you  then." 
"  Truly,  these  words  are  sooth,  my  child.  I  was  beset 
by  this  weak  heart  to  visit  thee  at  once,  but  some  feeling, 
which  seemed  from  above,  held  me  back,  whispering  ever, 
'  Do  not  make  to  thyself  an  idol  of  this  fair  child,  for  thy 
God  is  a  jealous  God,  visiting  the  sins  of  the  fathers  upon 
the  children.'  Then,  feeling  that  the  great  love  in  my 
bosom  might  fall  upon  thee  in  wrath  for  mine  offence,  I 
dared  not  come  within  sight  of  thee,  mine  only  child  ;  but 
was  driven  by  the  storm,  as  it  were,  on  to  the  heights 
overlooking  the  ocean." 

"And  what  did  you  see  there,  my  father  ?" 
"A  ship,  breaking  through  the  clouds,   afar  off,  that 
waved  and  surged  around   and  above  it  like  fiery  ban 
ners." 

"And  this  woman  came  down  the  sides,  entered  a  boat, 
and  was  whelmed  in  the  waves,  from  which  you  and  Nor 
man  Lovel,  my  betrothed,  rescued  her.  All  the  rest  I 
know.  But  who  is  she  ?  Where  is  her  country,  and  from 
what  good  or  evil  influence  did  she  get  that  wonderful 
power,  which  wins  every  heart  to  her  glance  ?" 
"  Elizabeth,  I  do  not  know  1" 

"  Father,  let  us  be  just.  From  the  depth  of  my  soul  I 
believe  this  woman  an  emissary  of  the  Evil  One,  sent 
hither  to  break  up  the  harmony  of  our  lives.  But  speak 
to  her,  father;  question  her,-as  a  judge  might  do,  when 
afraid  to  sentence  unholily.  If  the  conviction  fastened 
in  this  poor  heart  springs  from  the  selfishness  of  too  keen 
affections,  let  me  have  the  proof,  and  I  will  kneel  at  Bar 
bara  Stafford's  feet  till  she  pardons  me.  But  if  there  is 
truth  in  these  things — if  she  possesses  no  power  to  sweep 


SOUL      TO  li  T  L'  K  E  S.  315 

suspicion  of  diabolical  influence  away  from  her — then  will 
I,  of  my  own  strength,  surrender  her  to  the  magistrates, 
that  the  evil  spirit  may  be  driven  from  our  house." 

Samuel  Parris  was  sorely  perplexed.  In  his  simplicity, 
the  introduction  of  this  strange  lady  into  his  household 
had  been  .preceded  with  none  of  the  usual  explanations. 
There  was  something  about  the  woman,  a  dignity  of 
reserve,  that,  notwithstanding  her  sweet  graciousness,  for 
bade  all  close  questioning.  When  Samuel  Parris  re 
membered  all  the  incidents  connected  with  their  first 
meeting — the  reserve  maintained  ever  since — the  confusion 
left  behind  when  she  fled  so  strangely  from  the  governor's 
house,  and  the  animosities  that  had  sprung  up  under  his 
own  roof  since  it  had  sheltered  her — the  justice  of  his 
daughter's  accusation  fastened  strongly  upon  him.  He 
shivered  with  dread.  Events  hitherto  of  simple  solution, 
took  a  lurid  form  in  his  eyes.  He  looked  wistfully  at  the 
pale  face  uplifted  to  his — at  the  trouble  in  those  beautiful 
eyes — and  was  ready  to  cry  out  with  anguish  when  he 
thought  that  it  was  through  him  the  evil  influence  had 
reached  that  young  soul. 

"  Stay  here,"  he  said,  rising  from  his  chair,  and  search 
ing  for  his  staff,  for  the  tremor  in  his  old  limbs  was  pain 
fully  visible.  "  Sit  here,  and  pray  for  help.  Before  the 
Lord  I  will  question  this  woman." 

He  kissed  his  daughter  on  the  forehead,  trembling  all 
over,  as  if  his  lips  pressed  the  brow  of  a  corpse,  and  tak 
ing  up  his  staff  went  out,  followed  by  her  heavy  gaze,  and 
a  succession  of  low  moans  ;  for  with  great  mental  anguish 
came  bodily  pain,  and  for  a  time  Elizabeth  Parris  seemed 
as  if  shrouded  in  ice. 

The  old  man  hont  his  steps  toward  the  beach  once 
more. 


\ 

316      DENUNCIATION    AND     REPROACHES. 


CHAPTER    XXXVII. 

DENUNCIATION   AND   REPROACHES. 

i 

BARBARA  STAFFORD  was  both  disturbed  and  offended 
by  the  abrupt  challenge  of  the  minister.  There  was 
something  wild,  even  rude  in  his  manner,  that  aroused  all 
the  force  of  her  really  proud  nature. 

"  Leave  me,  Norman  !"  she  said,  gently.  "  It  was  wrong 
to  abandon  the  young  lady  on  the  first  hour  of  your  ar 
rival  ;  one  does  not  readily  forgive  such  slights.  Go  back 
to  the  house,  and  make  atonement." 

Norman  obeyed,  lifting  his  hat  with  haughty  rever 
ence  as  he  passed  the  minister.  The  old  man  turned,  and 
followed  him  half  way  to  the  house.  Then  he  paused — 
stood  a  moment  lost  in  thought,  and  slowly  retraced  his 
steps. 

Barbara  would  not  appear  to  wait  his  coming.  She 
had  wandered  forth,  as  was  her  frequent  habit,  in  search 
of  rare  flowers  that  excited  her  botanical  fancy,  from  their 
beauty ;  or  roots  that  possessed  some  medicinal  property, 
useful  in  the  minister's  household.  Without  appearing  to 
heed  the  old  man,  she  left  the  foot  of  the  oak,  and  was 
walking  along  the  curving  lines  formed  where  the  forest 
turf  crumbled  away  into  a  surface  of  white  sand.  Now 
and  then  she  paused  to  gather  a  leaf,  or  some  wood 
blossom,  which  she  put  in  a  little  Indian  basket,  which 
hung  upon  her  arm. 

As  the  minister  came  up  with  her,  she  was  kneeling  on 
the  turf  and  eagerly  unearthing  a  bulbous  root,  from 


DENUNCIATION    AND    REPROACHES.      317 

which  two  or  three  rich  leaves  sprang,  shading  a  cone  of 
red  berries  that  shot  up  from  their  midst  like  a  flame. 

She  looked  over  her  shoulder,  as  the  minister  ap 
proached,  and  half  rose,  with  the  little  stiletto,  with  which 
she  bad  been  digging,  in  her  hand. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  she  said,  falling  to  her  work  again. 
"  This  is  a  rare  specimen.  I  have  almost  uprooted  the 
bulb.  Old  Tituba  will  find  it  wonderfully  useful  in  mak 
ing  up  her  drinks." 

The  minister  grew  pale,  as  he  stood  leaning  on  his  staff 
gazing  at  the  root.  Barbara  spoke  again,  rather  cheer 
fully,  for  exercise  and  a  bright  sea-breeze  had  excited  her 
a  little. 

"It  has  a  common  name,  I  think,  among  the  people 
here.  Wake  robbin — isn't  that  correct '/" 

"  Wake  robbin — wild  turnip,  a  deadly  poison, "answered 
the  old  man,  hoarsely. 

"Ah,  that  is  as  you  take  it.  Well  dried,  and  ground  to 
powder,  it  is  sometimes  a  wholesome  medicine.  I  will 
teach  Tituba  how  to  use  it." 

"  Tituba — my  woman  servant,  Tituba — and  is  she  of 
this  diabolical  confederacy  ?"  muttered  the  old  man,  while 
a  sensation  of  horror  crept  over  him.  "Am  I  beset  with 
fiends  ?" 

Barbara  arose  from  the  earth,  held  up  the  cone  of  scarlet 
berries  in  the  sun,  while  the  bulb  was  clasped  in  her  hand, 
with  the  green  leaves  falling  over  it. 

"  How  can  poisonous  things  be  so  beautiful  ?"she  said, 
with  a  sigh.  "  Who  would  believe  that  one  of  these 
glowing  drops  could  take  a  human  life  ?" 

"  You  know  it  to  be  deadly,  then  ?"  questioned  the  old 
man. 


318      DENUNCIATION     AND    REPROACHES. 

His  voice  was  so  hoarse  that  Barbara  looked  him  ear 
nestly  in  the  face. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  thoughtfully,  "  I  know  all  its 
good  and  all  its  evil  qualities.  Like  many  other  things 
in  life  it  can  both  cure  and  kill." 

As  she  spoke,  Barbara  cut  away  the  leaves  and  the 
red  cone  with  her  poignard,  dropping  the  root  into  her 
basket.  Then  she  put  away  the  stiletto  somewhere  in 
the  folds  of  her  dress,  and  dashed  off  the  soil  that  clung  to 
her  white  hands. 

"You  would  speak  with  me,  I  think?"  she  said,  a  little 
anxiously. 

"  She  knows  that  already,"  thought  the  old  man,  feed 
ing  his  suspicions  with  every  word  Barbara  Stafford 
uttered  :  but  he  only  said  : 

"Lady,  what  have  you  in  common  with  the  young 
man  who  sat  with  you  a  few  minutes  ago,  under  the  oak 
yonder  ?" 

Barbara  smiled.  These  words  were  a  relief  to  her. 
She  had  expected  something  more  important  by  his  strange 
manner. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Lovel — he  joined  me  on  the  shore  where  I 
went  in  search  of  a  shrub  I  wanted  for  old  Tituba  who 
has  a  bad  cough.  I  hope  bis  wish  to  join  me  has  not  en 
croached  on  pleasanter  duties." 

"  And  he  too  ?"  muttered  the  old  man — "  he  too  ?" 

Barbara  listened  keenly,  but  the  words  escaped  her. 
Her  silence,  however,  was  impressive. 

"Let  us  go  forward  to  the  oak  yonder,"  he  said,  point 
ing  the  way  with  bis  staff. 

Barbara  turned,  without  a  word,  and  walked  slowly  to 
ward  the  oak. 

They  sat  down  together,  the  old  man  and  the  strange 


DENUNCIATION    AND    REPROACHES       319 

woman — she  with  a  calm  look  of  preparation  ;  be  stern 
and  pale,  but  hesitating  how  to  begin.  Her  dignity  and 
the  grave  attention  with  which  she  waited  took  away  all 
his  self-possession. 

"  You  would  speak  with  me,"  Barbara  said,  at  length  : 
"you  look  agitated.  Surely  nothing  has  gone  amiss  since 
I  left  the  house  !" 

The  old  man's  face  changed,  and  his  voice  trembled  as 
he  spoke. 

"  Lady,  I  helped  to  save  you  from  the  deep.  I  sur 
rendered  to  you  the  sacred  wine  after  it  had  touched  the 
lips  of  the  man  who  stands  highest  in  our  land.  I  have 
given  you  shelter  in  my  dwelling,  and  placed  you  at  the 
same  table  with  my  daughter  and  my  niece  ;  yet  so  far  as 
your  worldly  life  is  concerned,  I  know  you  not,  neither 
your  outgoing  nor  your  incoming.  What  could  I  answer 
to  the  Lord,  were  he  to  say  to  me,  '  Samuel  Parris,  who 
Is  the  woman  with  whom  you  have  broken  bread,  and 
shared  the  same  roof?'  I  could  but  reply,  'Lord,  I  know 
not — for  good  or  for  evil  she  was  cast  upon  my  care,  like 
a  drift  of  sea-weed  from  the  great  deep — without  a  history 
— without  a  friend  !'" 

"And  in  so  much  your  answer  would  prove  correct. 
Be  satisfied,  kind  old  man,  that  you  have  done  a  Christian 
duty,  for  which  the  poor  woman  you  saved  will  not  prove 
ungrateful." 

The  minister  shook  his  head,  muttering  to  himself, 

"  The  arch  enemy  is  most  potent  when  he  speaks  in  a 
sweet  voice,  and  takes  on  himself  the  meekness  of  an 

igel." 

Barbara  only  heard  a  word  or  two  of  ,nis  low  speech, 
but  she  saw  that  the  old  man  was  troubled,  and  a  mourn 
ful  smile  cat  ^e  to  her  lips. 
20 


320      DENUNCIATION    AND    REPROACHES. 

"You  are  weary  of  me,  I  have  become  a  burden  in  your 
house;  do  not  fear  to  say  this." 

"  Not  a  burden,  lady,  but  a  mystery — not  an  unwel 
come  guest,  but  one  around  whom  tears  and  discord 
centre,  like  storm  clouds  over  the  sky.  Lady,  in  the 
name  of  God,  I  ask,  who  are  you,  and  for  what  purpose 
do  you  sojourn  among  us  ?" 

Barbara  Stafford  arose,  pressed  both  hands  to  her  eyes 
for  a  moment,  and  answered — ah,  so  sadly — 

"  I  am  nothing  but  a  lone,  lone  woman,  Samuel  Parris, 
a  sorrowful  woman  whose  way  of  life  lies  through  the 
ashes  of  dead  hopes.  I  am  a  woman  to  whom  love  is  a 
forbidden  blessing.  This  is  your  first  answer.  As  for  my 
object  in  coming  among  you,  it  is  not  accomplished,  but 
dead.  A  few  weeks  and  I  shall  pass  away.  The  sea, 
which  would  not  mercifully  overwhelm  me,  spreads  its 
waters  between  us  and  the  land  where  my  grave  will  bo 
dug.  Let  me  rest  in  peace,  old  man,  till  a  ship  sails  for 
some  British  port :  then  I  will  trouble  no  one  longer." 

"  Then  she  will  trouble  no  one  longer,"  muttered  Parris, 
writing  with  his  stick  upon  the  ground.  "  God  teaeh  me 
how  to  deal  with  this  beautiful  demon,  if  such  she  is  : 
her  words  disturb  my  soul  with  compassion  against  its 
will." 

He  was  tempted  to  go  away  and  leave  the  gentle  lady 
in  peace,  with  her  basket  of  roots,  and  the  fragrant  flowers 
with  which  she  bad  interspersed  them.  The  task  of 
questioning  her  was  too  much  for  his  kind  nature;  while, 
influenced  by  the  sweetness  of  her  voice,  and  under  the 
magnetism  of  her  presence,  he  felt  humbled  and  gentle  cs 
a  child.  His  daughter  was  quite  forgotten  ;  but,  as  he 
stood  irresolute,  a  cry  came  out  from  the  distance,  and 
looking  toward  his  house,  he  saw  Elizabeth  coming  swiftly 


DENUNCIATION     AND     REPROACHES. 

toward  them,  her  golden  hair  all  afloat  in  the  sunshine, 
her  blue  eyes  bright  as  diamonds,  her  lips  apart  and 
tremulous  with  the  cries  that  came  sobbing  through 
them. 

"  My  child  !  my  child  !"  cried  the  old  man,  stretching 
forth  his  arms  as  the  young  girl  drew  near.  "  Woman, 
behold  your  evil  work  !" 

Barbara  was  bewildered.  Her  eyes  turned  from  the 
old  man  to  the  girl,  who  came  up  swiftly,  her  face  all 
flushed  with  fever,  her  eyes  burning,  and  her  lips  filling 
the  air  with  broken  words. 

"  Father  !  father  !  Come  away  !  There  is  witchcraft 
in  her  eyes  :  they  have  beguiled  him  and  now  turn  upon 
you.  Come  away,  or  she  will  lure  you  upon  the  sands, 
and  sing  you  into  the  coral  caves,  which  are  built  by  her 
sisters,  the  sea  witches." 

"Alas  !  the  poor  child  is  ill.  This  is  the  delirium  of 
fever  !"  cried  Barbara,  going  toward  the  frantic  young 
creature,  who  flung  herself  back,  and  with  her  hand 
motioned  the  woman  away. 

" Avaunt !  get  you  behind  me  !"  she  cried,  with  the 
voice  and  air  of  a  priestess  in  full  inspiration.  "  Sister  of 
her  of  Endor,  I  denounce  you.  Demon,  whom  the  waves 
have  hurled  forth  to  our  destruction,  I  denounce  you. 
Let  the  old  man  alone.  He  shall  not  taste  your  roots,  or 
be  poisoned  with  a  touch  of  your  hand.  Lo,  it  is  in  my 
veins,  it  burns  in  my  eyes,  and  aches  on  my  forehead — 
body  and  soul,  your  evil  power  possesses  me  ;  but  remem 
ber,  he  is  a  servant  of  the  Most  High.  His  heart  is  full 
of  prayers,  his  brain  armed  with  holy  thoughts.  The 
fiends  you  serve  shall  not  prevail  against  this  holy  man  !" 

Barbara  was  struck  with  astonishment.  She  turned 
deathly  white  as  these  words  were  hurled  against  her, 


322      DENUNCIATION    AND    REPROACHES. 

but  she  had  great  knowledge  of  diseases  and  instantly 
saw  the  truth. 

"  Poor  child  1"  she  said,  approaching  Elizabeth,  "this  is 
the  delirium  of  brain  fever.  She  is  very  ill !" 

Elizabeth  flung  out  her  arms,  staggered  back,  and  fell 
to  the  earth,  moaning  with  pain. 

"  Stand  back,"  said  the  old  man,  planting  himself 
before  the  prostrate  form  of  his  child,  "  your  sorcery  has 
done  its  work ;  a  demon  possesses  her.  Woman,  before 
the  most  holy  God,  I  denounce  you  as  a  Witch  1" 

Barbara  staggered  back,  stunned  and  white,  under  the 
minister's  solemn  denunciation.  The  horrible  magnitude 
of  his  charge  paralyzed  her. 

"  What  can  this  mean  ?  Who  denounces  me  ?"  she 
cried  out  at  last,  rising  to  her  full  majestic  height,  and 
casting  a  look  of  sorrowful  indignation  at  her  accuser. 
"  I  am  a  stranger,  and  helpless  I" 

The  old  man  was  bending  over  his  child.  Her  flushed 
face  was  turned  upward  to  the  sun,  her  eyes  wandered  to 
and  fro,  dazzled  and  bright  with  pain.  She  had  ceased  to 
mutter  now,  and  lay  motionless. 

Barbara  would  have  helped  the  old  man,  but  he  put  her 
aside,  and  in  a  stern  voice  bade  her  depart. 

The  unhappy  woman  looked  wildly  abroad,  upon  the 
ocean — the  land — it  all  seemed  a  dreary  wilderness  to 
her.  Why  should  she  remain  where  men  hated  her 
so  ?  Why  did  she  wish  to  escape  the  awful  danger 
threatened  by  that  old  man's-words  ?  Fleeing,  as  much 
from  the  minister's  evident  abhorrence  as  from  fear  of  the 
consequences,  the  woman  turned  and  walked  slowly  to 
ward  the  woods. 

When  Samuel  Parris  arose,  lifting  his  child  from  the 
earth,  Barbara  Stafford  had  disappeared.  Unheard  and 


DENUNCIATION    AND    REPROACHES.      323 

unseen  she  had  vanished  from  his  presence ;  and  this  was 
remembered  as  another  proof  against  her. 

While  the  scene  had  been  in  progress,  a  boat  grated  on 
the  sands  of  the  beach,  and  two  persons  stepped  out, 
going  different  ways :  the  young  man  bent  his  course 
toward  the  forest ;  the  maiden  came  softly  up  to  the  place 
where  Samuel  Parris  stood  staggering  under  the  weight 
of  his  child. 

"  What  is  this,  uncle  ?  Has  Elizabeth  hurt  herself  that 
she  cannot  keep  her  feet  ?"  said  Abigail  Williams,  in  the 
cold,  still  way  that  had  marked  her  of  late. 

"  She  is  possessed — God  have  mercy  upon  us  I  the 
child  is  possessed  !" 

Abigail  looked  on  her  cousin's  face,  and  a  spasm  of 
pain  crept  over  her  own  features. 

"  She  is  indeed  very  ill — something  terrible  is  upon  her. 
Let  us  go  to  the  house  :  the  hot  sun  makes  her  worse." 

The  old  man  gathered  Elizabeth  closer  to  his  bosom 
and  turned  to  obey  this  suggestion.  In  moving,  his  foot 
struck  the  little  basket  which  Barbara  bad  carried,  scatter 
ing  some  of  the  roots  and  flowers  on  the  ground. 

"  Bring  that,  also  !"  he  said,  glancing  earthward  ;  "  bring 
that  also  !" 

Abigail  took  up  the  basket,  replaced  the  scattered  roots, 
and  followed  the  minister  home. 


824  SHELTERED     IN    THE    WOODS. 


CHAPTER   XXXYIII. 

SHELTERED    IN    THE    WOODS. 

BARBARA  STAFFORD  found  herself  in  the  deep  shadows 
of  the  wilderness,  walking  slowly  and  steadily  on  till 
their  gloom  lay  around  her — heavy  and  dark,  like  the 
terror  that  settled  on  her  suui. 

Barbara  was  a  woman  strong  to  suffer,  to  endure,  and 
to  act;  but  a  woman  still,  timid  like  her  sex,  shrinking 
from  pain,  and  afraid  of  violence,  as  true  womanhood  is. 
Though  full  of  that  gentle  courage  which  is  so  beautiful 
when  blended  with  softer  qualities,  she  was  sensitive  to 
blame  and  easily  wounded  in  her  personal  dignity.  This 
abrupt  charge  of  witchcraft  shocked  her  to  the  soul. 
Was  she  to  give  up  every  thing,  to  suffer  a  martyrdom  of 
affection,  and  go  down  to  her  grave  branded  as  a  demon? 
Barbara  knew  well  the  importance  of  a  charge  like  that 
denounced  against  her  by  the  lips  of  Samuel  Parris. 
There  did  not  exist  a  person  in  the  colonies  whose  power 
of  character  would  give  more  crushing  force  to  an  accu 
sation  of  this  kind,  both  in  the  courts  and  in  the  con 
gregation.  She  felt  that  the  good  old  man  was  convinced 
of  her  evil  power  against  his  own  wishes — that,  added  to 
his  natural  fanaticism,  a  solemn  belief  in  witchcraft,  which 
had  spread  from  the  old  country  into  the  colonies,  had 
seized  upon  his  quick  imagination,  and  he  would  pursue 
her  to  death  from  an  honest  sense  of  duty. 

She  felt  the  danger  to  be  imminent.  But  where  could 
she  fly  ?  to  whom  appeal  ?  A  stranger,  without  history, 


SHELTERED     IN     THE     WOODS.  325 

with  a  name  utterly  unknown  in  the  colonies,  with  no 
ostensible  motive  for  leaving  her  own  land,  or  remaining 
an  hour  in  this,  who  would  step  forward  in  her  defence  f 
Norman  Lovel  ?  Alas  !  he  was  young  and  entirely  de 
pendent  on  Gov.  Phipps,  the  tried  and  bosom  friend  of 
Samuel  Parris.  What  hope  could  lie  in  that  direction  ? 

There  was  no  shelter — no  help.  A  feeling  of  strange 
desolation  crept  over  her.  She  had  thought  herself 
lonely,  and  her  life  dreary  before,  but  her  heart  was  full  of 
gentle  sympathies  that  would  put  forth  their  fibres  and 
search  for  something  to  cling  to,  even  in  her  worst  hours. 
Now  she  was  literally  driven  forth  to  the  wilderness, 
branded  by  a  horrible  accusation,  which  must  turn  all 
compassion  into  hate  wherever  she  approached.  She  had 
gold  about  her  person,  but  even  that  all  potent  metal  was 
valueless  here.  Who  would  touch  coin  that  came  from  a 
denounced  witch  ?  Who  would  believe  in  its  validity,  or 
dare  to  receive  money  which  might  turn  to  some  poisonous 
drug  in  the  handling  ? 

In  her  distress,  Barbara  bethought  herself  of  the  broken 
tribe  of  Indians  that  she  had  seen  only  a  few  nights  before 
mustering  with  such  solemn  purpose  around  the  man 
whom  she  had  so  signally  befriended.  She  remembered 
that  promise  to  protect  her,  which  had  stirred  the  very 
heart  of  the  wilderness  as  with  a  single  voice.  She  was 
ready  to  trust  these  savages,  and  without  a  pang  accept 
protection  from  their  chief.  But  how  could  she  find 
their  hiding-places  in  a  forest  so  deep,  and  without  a 
guide  ? 

The  night  was  drawing  on,  dark  and  heavy.  Storm 
clouds  gathered  in  masses  over  the  sun  as  it  set,  turning 
all  its  gold  to  lead,  and  filling  the  woods  with  pall-like 
shadows.  Then  came  sounds  of  low  thunder,  mingled 


326  SHELTERED     IN     THE     WOODS. 

with  a  sough  of  the  winds  as  they  swept  in  from  the 
distant  ocean.  The  loneliness  grew  terrible.  She  fell 
upon  her  knees  and  prayed  to  God,  the  only  being  to 
whom  she  could  appeal,  in  heaven  or  on  earth. 

As  she  prayed  the  rain  began  to  fall.  It  came  patter 
ing  among  the  leaves,  breaking  up  the  gloom  with  oppos 
ing  dreariness.  When  the  foliage  was  all  saturated  and 
dripping,  the  drops  began  to  fall  heavily  around  her,  but 
she  had  no  shelter — no  friend.  The  elements  seemed 
driving  her  from  all  approach  to  heaven.  She  arose 
heart  sick,  and  seating  herself  on  a  fragment  of  rock, 
buried  her  face  in  her  folded  arms  and  wept. 

A  hand  laid  upon  her  shoulder  broke  the  deadness  of 
her  grief.  She  looked  up  and  saw  the  young  Indian 
chief.- 

"  Lady,  why  are  you  here  alone,  so  far  from  home,  and 
a  storm  brewing  ?"  he  said. 

She  lifted  her  face  with  a  look  of  touching  gratitude. 
It  was  something  to  feel  that  human  life  was  near — that 
she  need  not  shiver  in  the  rain,  and  be  left  to  starve  in 
the  deep  woods. 

"  They  pursue  me — the  white  men  of  my  race — they 
charge  me  with  grave  crimes — they  have  driven  me  into 
the  woods,"  she  answered,  with  touching  mournfulness. 

The  young  man  drew  himself  up,  and  clutched  the  gun 
which  he  hsld  with  a  passionate  grip. 

"Again,"  he  said,  bitterly,  "  are  they  at  their  old  work  ? 
Must  another  bright  bead  stoop  beneath  their  blows  ? 
Come  with  me.  I  have  nothing  but  savage  fare  and 
savage  protection  to  give,  but  with  us  you  will  be  safe. 
When  the  Indian  strikes  a  woman,  it  is  upon  the  fore 
head,  not  the  heart.  We  torture  with  fire,  not  with 
words." 


SHELTERED     IN     THE    WOODS.  327 

Barbara  arose,  thankful  for  bis  kindness,  but  her  limbs 
trembled.  She  had  walked  many  miles,  and  now  that 
protection  came  her  strength  fled. 

"Where  would  you  take  me?"  she  inquired.  "Is  it 
very  far  ?" 

He  saw  how  helpless  she  was,  and  his  brow  fell.  The 
encampment  was  far  distant  over  the  broken  hills. 

"Wait  a  little,"  he  said  ;  "  gather  strength  and  courage. 
Not  far  from  this  are  a  few  of  my  people,  who  follow  me 
always  when  I  approach  the  settlements.  We  can  soon 
reach  them." 

Barbara  made  a  brave  effort,  and  followed  him  through 
the  gathering  darkness.  He  did  not  pause  more  than  was 
necessary  to  help  her  through  the  undergrowth  where  the 
ground  was  broken  and  difficult  of  ascent.  It  seemed  as 
if  her  lonely  condition  and  utter  helplessness  silenced  all 
the  fiery  devotion  which  had  marked  their  previous  inter 
views.  He  touched  her  hand  with  reverence  when  she 
extended  it  for  help  once  or  twice,  but  never  looked  upon 
her  face,  or  uttered  a  word  of  the  passionate  homage  that 
burned  in  his  heart. 

At  last  they  reached  a  basin  in  the  hills,  locked  in  by  a 
chain  of  ledges,  crowned  with  trees  and  covered  with 
creeping  ferns  and  mosses.  A  fire  was  burning  in  this 
little  hollow;  the  rain  beat  upon  it  through  the  branches, 
but  still  it  flamed  up,  giving  glow  and  warmth  to  the 
night.  Around  this  fire  a  group  of  Indians  sat  in  patient 
watching  for  their  chief.  He  approached  them  softly  and 
spoke  a  few  gentle  words.  The  Indians  stood  up  and 
gazed  at  Barbara  in  respectful  wonder.  She  in  her  turn 
looked  upon  their  stately  forms  and  worn  habiliments  with 
a  strange  feeling  of  safety. 

These  men  wore  no  paint ;  'heir  robes  of  dreseed  deer- 


328  SHELTERED     IN    THE    WOODS. 

skin  were  faded  and  without  ornament.  Nothing  about 
them  seemed  worthy  of  care,  except  the  guns  that  they 
leaned  upon,  and  the  pouches  in  which  they  kept  powder 
and  lead. 

The  young  chief  spoke  with  his  followers  in  their  own 
language.  He  told  them  more  of  Barbara  Stafford's  his 
tory  than  any  person  in  America  knew  except  himself. 
How  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  proud  old  chief  in  the 
mother  country,  who  owned  lands  broad  almost  as  the 
wilderness  they  stood  in,  with  a  vast  dwelling  which  rose 
from  the  earth  like  a  mountain  peak.  The  savages 
needed  no  more  than  this,  for  they  had  heard  his  speech 
near  the  beacon  fire,  but  he  seemed  to  find  proud  joy  in 
telling  them  that  the  lady,  so  gentle  and  so  good,  now 
their  guest,  so  far  as  God's  wilderness  could  afford  hospi 
tality,  had  bought  him  of  his  task-masters,  and  taken  him 
to  foreign  countries,  where  she  and  her  father  travelled 
together  in  sad  companionship,  for  both  were  unhappy, 
and  found  his  affection  a  solace.  She  had  in  her  beauti 
ful  kindness  redeemed  his  soul  from  ignorance,  as  she  had 
purchased  his  body  from  the  slave-driver's  lash.  After  this 
she  and  her  proud  father  had  taken  him  to  their  home  in 
England — that  grand  home  in  which  they  were  held  as 
chiefs  and  princes — where  the  old  chief  died,  leaving  his 
daughter  alone  in  her  proud  domain. 

Here  the  young  man  paused,  his  eyes  fell,  and  his 
haughty  lip  began  to  tremble.  He  spoke  in  the  Indian 
tongue,  which  Barbara  could  not  understand,  but  the 
swarthy  blood  burned  on  his"  forehead  as  her  eye  turned 
upon  him,  and  for  a  moment  he  shrunk  from  telling  the 
whole  truth ;  but  his  brave  nature  gained  the  mastery,- 
and  he  went  on,  yet  with  humility  in  his  voice,  and  shame 
burning  io  his  downcast  eyes. 


SHELTERED     IN     THE    WOODS.  329 

"  My  children,  I  loved  the  lady  from  the  hour  her  hand 
unlocked  ray  chains,  but  the  secret  lay  buried  deep  in  my 
heart,  and  no  one  guessed  how  it  burned  there.  When 
her  father  was  dead,  and  I  saw  her  alone,  with  no  one  but 
me  to  counsel  or  comfort  her,  this  love  broke  from  its 
covert  and  frightened  her  almost  into  hating  me.  She  did 
not  mock  me  with  scorn,  but — " 

Here  the  Indians  broke  their  grim  silence,  and  signs  of 
proud  anger  passed  between  them.  At  last  one  spoke. 

"  Why  should  the  woman  treat  you  with  scorn  ?  If  she 
was  the  child  of  a  great  chief,  Philip,  your  father,  was  the 
king  of  a  mighty  tribe — your  mother  was  white  as  the 
boxwood  in  flower,  and  proud  as  the  hemlock  on  a  cliff. 
What  woman  dare  receive  the  love  of  a  king's  son,  save 
with  her  forehead  in  the  dust  ?" 

"  Not  with  scorn,  my  braves.  I  said  she  was  frightened, 
not  angry :  my  wild  passion  was  its  own  enemy.  She 
commanded  me  from  her  presence,  told  me  of  the  years 
she  had  lived  before  I  was  born,  and  with  cruel  gentle 
ness  sent  me  away. 

"  But  I  would  not  go.  Like  a  disgraced  hound  I  hung 
upon  her  track,  unseen,  unthought  of,  it  may  be,  till  she 
left  her  home  and  came  down  to  the  sea -shore,  where  a 
ship  lay  ready  to  sail.  I  followed  her,  and  buried  myself 
deep  in  the  hold  of  the  vessel,  not  caring — may  the  Great 
Spirit  forgive  me ! — where  the  ship  went,  nor  how  long 
she  might  plough  the  ocean.  We  were  sheltered  by  the 
same  timbers  once  more,  and  that  was  enough.  Before 
starting  I  knew  that  the  ship  was  bound  for  Boston,  and 
felt  that  the  Great  Spirit  had  been  leading  me  back  to  my 
father's  people — back  among  my  father's  enemies,  that  I 
might  accomplish  the  great  object  of  my  life,  and  avenge 
the  wrongs  which  no  Indian  can  forget.  So,  urged  on  by 


380  SHELTERED     IN     THE    WOODS. 

two  great  passions,  I  obtained  such  means  of  war  as  lay 
within  my  power  and  came  among  you. 

"  The  lady  left  our  vessel  when  we  neared  the  land. 
She  descended  into  a  frail  boat,  and  was  launched  forth 
into  the  harbor,  which  was  lashed  and  angry  with  storms 
I  dared  not  offer  to  go  with  her,  but  looked  on  sick 
at  heart  till  the  tempest  swept  her  away.  She  was 
hurled  among  the  breakers,  buried  in  the  sea ;  but  an  old 
man,  the  persecutor  of  our  people,  the  minister  of  Salem, 
dragged  her  forth,  and  with  him  a  youth." 

The  chief  paused  abruptly,  and  bis  reproachful  eyes 
turned  upon  the  lady. 

"  He  was  younger  than  I  am,  and  a  stranger,  yet  she 
did  not  drive  him  from  her  presence." 

He  spoke  these  words  in  English,  but  Barbara  did  not 
comprehend  their  meaning  or  connection.  She  only  knew 
that  his  eyes  were  full  of  sad  reproach,  and,  smiling 
softly,  drew  close  to  his  side,  murmuring, 

"I  am  driven  into  captivity  now,  and  it  is  from  you  I 
seek  shelter." 

"  I  have  told  my  braves  whom  it  is  they  will  defend. 
While  they  live  you  are  safe  in  the  wilderness  which  was 
my  father's  hunting-ground.  As  for  me,  have  compassion 
and  let  me  go  hence." 

A  flush  reddened  Barbara  Stafford's  forehead  as  she 
bent  it  with  a  gentle  sign  of  acquiescence.  The  chief 
gave  some  orders  in  their  own  tongue,  and  the  Indians  in 
stantly  fell  to  work  cutting_away  wet  branches  from  the 
hemlocks  and  pines,  tearing  green  bark  from  the  giant 
elms,  and  felling  young  saplings,  which  they  planted  in 
the  earth,  and  curved  downward  in  the  form  of  a  tent. 
Over  these  they  laid  the  bark,  and  covered  the  whole  with 
green  boughs,  till  a  bower  was  formed  worthy  of  a  wood 


SHELTERED    IN    THE    WOODS.  881 

nymph.  Two  of  the  Indians  brought  great  fleeces  of  moss 
down  from  the  ledges  and  heaped  a  couch  with  them, 
and  over  all  a  noble  white  pine  spread  its  massy  branches, 
through  which  the  full  moon  sent  a  thousand  gleams  of 
silver,  as  if  laughing  at  the  bank  of  storm  clouds  from 
which  it  had  just  escaped. 

Upon  the  couch  of  moss  which  his  people  had  heaped 
in  this  bower,  the  young  chief  spread  a  robe  of  skins,  and 
laid  his  blanket,  which  he  unwound  from  his  shoulders. 
Then,  with  the  air  of  a  prince  offering  the  hospitality  of  a 
royal  palace,  he  approached  Barbara  Stafford  where  she 
sat  by  the  fire,  and  led  her  to  the  shelter  provided  for  her. 

Barbara  was  greatly  moved.  With  an  impulse  of 
thankfulness,  she  bent  down  and  kissed  the  young  chiefs 
hand  as  he  was  about  to  withdraw  it  from  hers ;  but  it 
trembled  like  a  wounded  bird  beneath  her  touch,  and  his 
magnificent  eyes  filled  with  tears — the  shame  of  an 
Indian's  soul. 

Angry  with  his  weakness,  the  young  man  turned  from 
her  and  dashed  away  into  the  woods. 

When  Barbara  awoke  in  the  morning,  for  fatigue  made 
her  sleep  heavy,  she  inquired  for  the  young  man.  _  The 
Indians  answered  that  he  had  gone  deeper  into  the  wil 
derness,  where  the  main  body  of  his  tribe  lay,  and  when  a 
cabin  was  prepared  for  her  reception,  he  would  come  back 
again  ;  till  then  the  five  warriors  whom  he  had  left 
behind  would  protect  her  with  their  lives 


882  TAKEN    CAPTIVE. 


CHAPTER    XXXIX. 

TAKEN   CAPTIVE. 

SAMUEL  PARRIS  bore  his  daughter  home  and  laid  her 
on  her  own  white  bed,  where  she  writhed  like  a  wounded 
fawn  in  the  snow.  Her  face  was  rosy  with  flushes,  that 
came  and  went  like  gleams  of  light  on  marble  ;  her  lips 
•were  in  constant  motion  ;  she  muttered  continually  about 
Barbara  Stafford  and  Norman  Lovel.  Sometimes  she 
called  aloud  for  her  mother,  and  declared  with  childlike 
earnestness  that  she  saw  her  gliding  through  the  room 
with  her  golden  hair  smoothed  under  a  close  cap,  and  a 
white  dress  sweeping  around  her  like  the  wings  of  an  angel. 

The  old  minister  listened  to  all  this  in  stern  sorrow. 
His  ewe  lamb  was  smitten  down  before  his  eyes  :  God 
had  suffered  his  idolatrous  love  to  find  a  terrible  punish 
ment.  What  could  be  do  ?  how  act  to  save  that  beautiful 
one  from  perdition  ? 

Norman  Lovel  was  sad.  Barbara  Stafford  had  disap 
peared  like  a  myth.  His  approach  seemed  to  have  driven 
her  away,  and  he  found  Elizabeth,  from  whom  he  had 
parted  in  anger,  writhing  on  a  bed  of  pain,  muttering  her 
wild  fancies  and  crying  aloud  for  help. 

Abigail  Williams  moved  srbout  coldly  and  in  breathless 
silence.  The  curse  of  witchcraft  was  upon  the  house, 
hatred  and  death  clung  around  it  like  cerecloths  to  a 
coffin.  What  if  she,  too,  were  possessed — the  story  of 
old  Tituba,  a  device  of  the  Evil  One,  and  the  young  chief 
BO  wildly  beautiful,  who  claimed  relationship  with  her, 


TAKEN    CAPTIVE.  333 

the  arch  fiend  himself?  The  very  foundations  of  her 
reason  seemed  shaken  by  these  doubts,  and  as  the  moans 
and  cries  of  Elizabeth  reached  her  ear  from  time  to  time, 
she  would  pause  in  her  work  and  stand  motionless  like  a 
block  of  marble,  till  some  new  sound  startled  her  into  life 
again. 

All  night  Samuel  Parris  sat  by  the  bedside  of  his  child, 
pallid  and  thoughtful.  Over  and  again  he  questioned  her 
in  the  midst  of  her  wild  speeches,  as  a  judge  sifts  the 
words  of  a  doubtful  witness.  Sometimes  he  fell  into 
audible  prayer,  and  again  sat  in  dull  silence  pondering 
gloomily. 

When  the  morning  came  he  went  forth,  and,  mounting 
his  horse,  rode  to  the  nearest  magistrate,  who  was  a 
deacon  in  his  own  church,  and  a  man  of  iron  domination. 
Samuel  Parris  knew  well  that  after  his  appeal  to  this  man, 
there  could  be  little  free  will  left  to  him. 

No  wonder  then  that  he  walked  heavily,  and  paused 
long  upon  the  door-step  before  entering.  He  shrunk 
from  hunting  down  the  life  of  a  helpless  woman,  and 
shuddered  at  the  thought  of  making  a  charge  from  which 
there  was  no  chance  of  retreat. 

The  minister  went  in  at  last,  and  the  door  closed 
heavily  after  him.  The  sound  of  a  muffled  drum  could 
not  have  followed  his  footsteps  more  solemnly. 

After  an  hour  the  old  man  came  forth  again,  and  moved 
with  a  slow  tread  down  the  village  street  toward  his  own 
dwelling.  As  he  passed  the  doors  of  his  parishioners, 
men  and  women  came  out  and  questioned  him  in  low 
tones,  and  with  looks  of  awe,  regarding  the  condition  of 
his  child.  He  answered  them  all  patiently,  but  with  a 
sad  weariness  of  manner  that  turned  curiosity  into  com 
passion. 


834  TAKEN    CAPTIVE. 

On  the  threshold  of  his  home  Samuel  Parris  met  three 
men,  members  of  his  own  congregation,  who  greeted  him 
in  silence,  as  neighbors  salute  the  chief  mourners  at  a 
funeral.  Then  the  four  passed  in,  and  mounted  to  the 
chamber  where  Elizabeth  lay,  with  her  wild  eyes  lifted  to 
the  ceiling,  and  her  hands  waving  about  in  the  air. 

These  four  good  men — for  after  the  manner  of  the 
times  they  were  good — sat  down  in  silence,  and  each 
gathered  from  the  lips  of  the  delirious  girl  the  evidence 
which  was  to  imperil  a  human  life.  When  they  had 
listened  an  hour  keenly  and  conscientiously,  each  accord 
ing  to  his  light,  they  arose  and  went  forth,  shaking 
Samuel  Parris  by  the  hand  with  touching  solemnity. 

The  old  minister  saw  his  friends  file  away  from  the 
house,  and  bend  their  course  toward  that  of  the  magis 
trate,  and  then  he  felt  with  a  pang  of  unutterable  sorrow 
that  the  fate  of  Barbara  Stafford  had  passed  out  of  his 
hands. 

That  day  a  posse  of  men,  headed  by  a  constable,  armed 
with  a  warrant  to  arrest  Barbara  Stafford  fur  witchcraft, 
passed  througl^  the  village  and  into  the  forest,  taking  the 
track  which  the  unhappy  woman  bad  pursued.  The 
moss  and  forest  sward  was  moist  yet,  and  with  the  keen 
eyes  of  men  accustomed  to  pursue  an  Indian  trail  they 
found  traces  of  her  progress — now  a  faint  foot-print — then 
a  broken  twig  or  a  fragment  of  her  garments.  Thus  step 
by  step  they  pursued  her,  till  at  last  the  whole  group 
stood  upon  a  swell  of  land  t4iat  overlooked  the  hollow  in 
which  the  Indians  had  built  that  sylvan  lodge.  At  the 
entrance  a  red  shawl  had  been  stretched,  which  was  now 
folded  back  to  let  the  daylight  through,  and  in  the  warm 
shadow  beyond  they  saw  the  object  of  their  search  sitting 
in  dreary  thought. 


TAKEN    CAPTIVE.  335 

A  single  Indian  lay  upon  the  turf  a  little  way  off, 
guarding  the  lodge  with  a  vigilance  the  more  watchful 
because  his  companions  had  gone  forth  in  search  of  food. 

The  posse  of  men  held  a  whispered  consultation.  They 
understood  the  condition  of  things,  and  resolved  to  act 
promptly  before  help  came. 

In  the  savage  warfare  which  had  ended  in  the  subjuga 
tion  of  the  kingly  tribes,  Indian  life  was  held  scarcely 
more  sacred  than  that  of  the  wild  deer  and  panthers  that 
infested  the  hills.  When  the  constable  saw  that  athletic- 
savage  lying  upon  the  turf,  with  his  broad  chest  exposed 
like  that  of  a  bronze  statue,  he  drew  the  gun  which  he 
carried  to  his  shoulder  with  a  grim  smile,  called  on  God 
to  bless  the  murder,  and  touched  the  ponderous  lock  with 
his  finger.  A  sharp  click,  a  loud  report,  a  fierce  cry : 
the  savage  leaped  into  the  air,  fell  upon  his  face,  all  his 
limbs  quivering,  and  with  a  single  spasm  lay  dead  across 
the  entrance  of  Barbara  Stafford's  hiding-place. 

Barbara  came  forth  white  and  trembling,  saw  the  dead 
savage  at  her  feet,  and  looked  fearfully  around  for  his  mur 
derers.  A  group  of  men  and  a  wreath  of  pale  smoke 
curling  out  upon  the  air  revealed  all  her  danger.  She  did 
not  retreat,  but  fell  upon  her  knees  and  lifted  the  head  of 
the  Indian  up  from  the  ground.  Drops  of  crimson  stole 
down  the  bronze  chest  and  fell  slowly  to  the  turf. 

Barbara  did  not  attempt  to  escape,  though  she  saw  at  a 
glance  all  her  danger.  The  savage  who  had  been  her 
protector  was  shot  through  the  heart.  The  sight  of  so 
much  life  and  strength  smitten  down  in  one  instant  para 
lyzed  her.  She  had  never  witnessed  a  violent  death 
before,  and  the  shock  bereft  her  alike  of  hope  and  fear. 
The  constable  understood,  a^pd  whispering  his  men  to 

follow,  crept  toward  her.     She  saw  him  without  caring  to 
21 


336  TAKEX     CAPTIVE. 

escape,  but,  stooping  over  the  body  of  her  friend,  shook 
her  head  mournfully  as  he  came  up. 

"Unhappy  man,  you  have  killed  him,"  she  said,  lifting 
her  eyes  to  his  face  with  a  glance  of  pathetic  reproach. 

The  constable  stooped  down,  dragged  the  body  from  her 
feet,  and  cast  it  headlong  down  the  slope  of  earth  on 
which  she  stood.  Then,  without  a  word,  he  seized 
Barbara  by  both  her  wrists,  and  grasped  them  together 
with  a  firm  grip  of  one  hand,  while  he  searched  in  his 
pocket  for  a  thong  of  deer-skin  prepared  for  the  occasion. 
Putting  one  end  of  the  thong  between  his  teeth,  he  wound 
the  other  tightly  over  her  wrists — so  tightly  that  the  deli 
cate  hands  grew  purple  to  the  finger  ends.  Then  he 
finished  his  barbarous  work  with  a  double  knot  tightened 
with  both  hands  and  teeth. 

The  outraged  woman  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  face  with  a 
frightened  look  as  he  performed  this  brutal  act,  but  she 
neither  protested  nor  struggled  ;  once  she  observed  gently 
that  he  hurt  her  hands,  but,  when  no  heed  was  taken, 
allowed  him  to  proceed  without  further  remonstrance. 

When  her  bands  were  bound,  the  constable  tore  down 
her  shawl  from  the  entrance  of  the  lodge  and  placed  it  on 
her  shoulders,  crossing  it  over  her  bosom  and  knotting  it 
behind,  thus  forming  a  double  thraldom  for  her  arms. 

She  bore  it  all  patiently  and  in  silence  ;  once  she  cast  an 
earnest  look  into  the  depths  of  the  forest,  perhaps  with  a 
hope  that  her  savage  friends  might  come  to  the  rescue,  but 
she  only  met  the  gleaming  eyes  of  a  wild-cat,  swinging 
lazily  on  a  bough  to  which  human  approach  had  driven 
him.  Even  there  her  glance  was  answered  by  a  low 
growl  and  a  gleam  of  savage  teeth.  The  wild  beasts  were 
defying  her  in  one  direction,  and  human  cruelty  dragging 
her  to  death  in  another. 


THE    ACCUSERS   or   BARBARA.       337 

Thus,  helpless  and  unresisting,  she  was  forced  into  the 
settlement  again,  bound  like  a  criminal.  She  made 
neither  protest  nor  resistance,  but  remained  quietly  in 
the  hands  of  her  captors,  accepting  her  fate  with  touch 
ing  resignation. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

THE   ACCUSERS    OF   BARBARA. 

WHEN  the  constable  and  his  followers  came  into  the 
town  of  Salem,  with  Barbara  Stafford  in  their  midst,  a 
wild  commotion  seized  upon  the  inhabitants.  Every  door 
and  window  was  crowded  with  human  heads.  The  public 
streets  were  swarming  like  a  bee-hive,  and  a  look  of 
solemn  consternation  greeted  her  at  every  point.  Pale 
and  still  Barbara  passed  before  them.  The  subdued 
feeling,  the  majesty  and  grandeur  of  her  carriage,  im 
pressed  many  with  awe,  and  a  few  with  gleams  of  com 
passion  ;  but  the  ban"  of  witchcraft  was  upon  her,  and  no 
one  ventured  to  step  forth  for  her  defence  or  comfort. 
She  was  not  insulted  :  among  the  whole  crowd  there  was 
no  man  or  child  cruel  enough  to  assail  her.  Little  boys 
who  had  gathered  up  stones  and  handfuls  of  turf  to 
hurl  at  the  witch,  felt  the  missiles  dropping  from  their 
grasp  when  those  great,  mournful  eyes  turned  upon  them. 
Some  little  girls,  in  the  tenderness  of  their  youth,  began 
to  cry  when  they  saw  how  her  hands  were  bound  ;  but  one 
or  two  old  women  called  out,  and  with  jeers  bade  her  prove 


838         THE    ACCUSERS    OF    BARBARA. 

her  descent  from  the  devil  by  breaking  her  own  bonds, 
exactly  as  like  revilers  mocked  our  Saviour  more  than 
sixteen  hundred  years  before.  But  some  supernatural 
power  seemed  to  bind  the  voices  of  these  women,  and  the 
words  they  would  have  uttered  died  out  in  low  groans  : 
the  gentle  power  of  that  woman's  presence  silenced  even 
the  spite  of  unredeemed  old  age. 

The  constable  and  his  men  bent  their  way  to  the  house 
of  Samuel  Parris,  where  the  accused  was  to  be  confronted 
with  her  victim.  The  inhabitants  of  the  town  followed  the 
cortege,  and  gathered  in  groups  upon  the  stretch  of  sward 
that  lay  between  the  minister's  dwelling  and  the  meeting 
house  ;  while  the  functionaries  of  the  church  and  officials 
of  the  government  entered  the  house. 

Elizabeth  Parris  still  kept  her  room,  but  in  her  delirium 
she  had  insisted  on  wearing  her  usual  apparel,  and  when 
her  father  came  up,  with  distress  in  his  face,  to  prepare 
her  for  the  approach  of  her  strange  visitors,  the  young 
girl  was  resolute  to  descend  to  the  rooms  below  where  she 
would  entertain  her  father's  guests  with  due  state. 

Possessed  of  the  idea  that  there  was  some  great  enter- 
taiament  at  which  she  was  to  preside,  the  beautiful  lunatic 
—for  such  fever  and  intense  excitement  had  made  her  for 
the  time — began  to  rummage  in  her  chest  of  drawers  for  the 
pretty  ornaments  with  which  she  had  adorned  herself  while 
the  guest  of  Lady  Phipps.  The  old  minister  dared  not 
resist  her;  with  him  these  vagaries  were  solemn  evidences 
of  witchcraft  with  which  it  was  sacrilege  to  interfere. 

Thus,  in  a  little  time  after  Barbara  Stafford  was  led 
into  the  house,  Elizabeth  Parris  appeared  on  the  stair 
case,  crowned  with  artificial  roses  that  glowed  crimson  in 
her  golden  hair,  and  gathering  the  white  muslin  robe 
to  her  bosom  with  one  pale  hand,  ss  if  the  inspiration 


THE    ACCUSERS    OF    BARBARA. 

of  some  old  master,  when  be  searched  his  soul  for  the 
type  of  a  heathen  priestess,  had  fallen  upon  her.  Her 
cheeks  were  flushed,  her  eyes  shone  like  stars,  and  the 
gliding  motion  with  which  she  descended  the  stairs  made 
her  presence  spiritual  as  that  of  an  angel. 

Abigail  Williams  came  after,  very  serious,  and  with  a 
look  of  terrible  pain  upon  her  forehead ;  her  eyes,  dusky 
with  trouble,  watched  the  movements  of  her  cousin.  She 
seemed  a  dark  shadow  following  the  spirit. 

Then  came  Samuel  Parris  ;  how  white  his  hair  had  be 
come  !  how  old  and  locked  were  those  thin  features !  He 
moved  like  one  who  felt  the  curse  of  God  heavy  upon  him 
and  his  whole  house.  Desolation  was  in  every  move 
ment. 

Old  Tituba  crept  after,  quick  and  vigilant  as  a  fox. 
She  traced  back  all  this  trouble  to  her  own  story  of  the 
martyred  Hutchinsons.  From  the  day  of  her  confidence 
with  Abby  Williams  the  curse  had  entered  her  master's 
house.  She  was  the  evil  spirit  that  the  people  sought. 
She  bad  concocted  the  roots  into  the  drinks  with  which 
Elizabeth  had  quenched  her  fever  thirst  when  the  disease 
crept  insidiously  over  her.  True,  Barbara  Stafford  had 
told  her  they  were  cooling  and  wholesome  ;  but  what 
right  had  she  to  take  the  word  of  a  strange  woman  like 
that  ?  Was  not  her  darling  witch-stricken,  soul  and  body, 
by  the  very  decoctions  with  which  she  had  hoped  to  cure 
her  ?  Had  not  the  words  of  her  own  tongue  changed 
Abigail  Williams  from  a  calm,  gentle  maiden,  full  of 
thoughtful  affections,  to  a  stern  prophetess,  such  as  her 
people  evoked  when  they  thirsted  for  vengeance  ? 

Tituba  had  pondered  these  things  over  and  over  in 
her  thoughts  till  she  almost  believed  herself  a  witch  and 
a  demon,  and  this  was  the  frame  of  mind  in  which  the 


840        THE     ACCUSERS     OF     BARBARA. 

poor  old  creature  followed  the  stricken  family  into  the 
presence  of  the  magistrates. 

When  Elizabeth  Parris  entered  the  room  that  had  once 
been  the  favorite  retreat  of  her  mother,  she  bent  her  slight 
figure  with  gentle  recognition  of  her  father's  friends,  and 
moving  toward  the  old  oaken  chair,  which  had  been,  time 
out  of  mind,  in  the  family,  sat  down,  or  rather  dropped 
into  it,  for  her  strength  was  giving  way.  But,  feeling 
that  something  was  expected  of  her,  she  looked  around, 
making  mournful  efforts  at  a  smile.  Her  glance  fell  on 
Barbara  Stafford,  who  sat  near  the  window,  watching  her 
movements  with  a  look  of  gentle  compassion. 

All  at  once  her  eyes  dilated  and  shot  fire,  her  brow 
began  to  throb  heavily  under  the  roses  that  bound  it, 
and  uplifting  herself  from  the  chair,  she  pointed  at  Bar 
bara  with  her  finger,  reeling  to  and  fro,  as  we  remember 
Rachel  when  she  sung  the  Marseillaise  almost  upon  the 
brink  of  her  own  grave. 

"  Take  her  away  !  take  her  away  !  I  cannot  breathe 
while  she  sits  yonder,  with  her  soft,  calm  eyes  I  That 
look  has  poison  in  it  1" 

She  began  to  shudder,  and  fell  back  into  the  chair,  cry 
ing  piteously. 

The  old  man  approached  Barbara  Stafford,  and  clasp 
ing  his  withered  hands,  began  to  plead  with  her. 

"  Behold,"  he  said,  stooping  meekly  toward  her,  "  be 
hold  your  evil  work !  When  you  came  here,  only  a  few 
days  ago,  she  was  bright  and  fair  as  the  rose  when  it 
opens.  Every  thing  made  her  happy.  If  she  went  out, 
joy  followed  her  ;  when  she  came  back,  the  sound  of  her 
footsteps  was  like  an  ans\yered  prayer.  Till  you  came, 
the  Lord  dwelt  in  our  household,  and  blessed  it.  We 
loved  each  other,  and  helped  each  other,  as  Christians 


THE     ACCUSERS     OF     BARBARA.        341 

should.  Woman,  what  had  we  done  that  you  should 
drive  out  our  household  angels,  and  fill  their  places  with 
fiends  of  darkness  ?  I  saved  your  life,  and  lo,  my  child, 
my  only  child,  is  accursed  before  God  and  man  1" 

The  minister  lifted  his  hands  as  he  ceased  speaking,  and 
covering  his  face,  wept  aloud. 

"Alas  !"  said  Barbara  Stafford,  and  her  voice  was  rail 
of  unshed  tears,  "  I  have  done  you  no  wrong,  kind  old 
man.  The  life  you  saved  was  of  little  worth,  but  such  as 
it  is,  I  would  gladly  lay  it  down  to  bring  peace  under 
this  roof  once  more.  Do  believe  me,  not  for  my  sake, 
but  your  own :  Elizabeth  Parris  is  ill  from  natural  causes, 
not  from  any  power,  evil  or  good,  that  rests  in  me.  Sud 
den  excitement — a  cold  perhaps  taken  in  the  night  air — 
anxiety  to  which  her  girlish  nature  is  unused — all  these 
may  have  conspired  to  disturb  her  brain." 

Barbara  would  have  said  more,  but  at  the  sound  of 
her  voice  Elizabeth  began  to  writhe  and  moan  in  her 
chair,  till  the  sound  of  her  anguish  drove  the  old  man 
wild. 

"  Oh,  my  God  !  my  God  !  why  hast  thou  forsaken  this 
household  !"  he  cried,  while  his  quivering  hands  dropped 
apart  and  fell  downward,  and  his  deploring  eyes  turned 
upon  his  child. 

"  Oh,  woman,  are  you  not  potent  to  redeem  as  well  as 
to  inflict  ?  Is  your  power  all  evil  ?" 

"  I  have  no  power  save  that  which  belongs  to  a  weak 
woman,"  replied  Barbara;  "but  if  you  can  unbind  my 
hands,  I  will  strive  to  soothe  the  poor  child." 

"  Unbind  her  bands,"  said  the  magistrate,  who  had  not 
spoken  till  then.  "  Let  the  spirit  within  have  full  sway. 
Heaven  forbid  that  we  judge  without  sure  evidence. 
Constable,  set  her  limbs  free  1" 


342         THE     ACCUSERS     OF     BARBARA. 

The  constable  unknotted  the  red  shawl  from  Barbara's 
shoulders,  and  loosened  the  thongs  that  tied  her  wrists 
together.  A  broad  purple  mark  was  left  on  the  delicate 
skin,  and  her  fair  hands  were  swollen  with  pain.  She 
drew  a  deep  breath,  for  the  sense  of  relief  was  pleasant ; 
and  moving  genth7  across  the  floor,  she  laid  her  two 
hands  on  Elizabeth'^  forehead. 

Up  to  this  moment  the  girl  had  moaned  and  writhed  as 
with  overwhelming  pain,  but  as  the  hands  of  Barbara 
Stafford  fell  upon  her  forehead  and  rested  there,  the 
tension  left  her  nerves,  and  with  a  sigh  she  sank  back  in 
the  chair.  Barbara  smiled,  passing  her  hands  softly 
down  the  now  pale  cheek,  till  they  rested  for  a  moment 
on  the  muslin  that  covered  Elizabeth's  bosom.  She 
again  lifted  them  to  the  drooping  forehead,  and  let  them 
glide  to  the  bosom  again,  leaving  quiet  with  each  gentle, 
touch. 

At  last  Elizabeth  Parris  turned  her  head  drowsily,  and 
the  lids  fell  over  her  eyes  like  white  rose-leaves  folding 
themselves  to  sleep,  and  with  what  seemed  a  blissful 
shudder,  she  resigned  herself  to  perfect  rest.  Then  Bar 
bara  looked  at  her  accusers  with  a  sad  smile,  and  took 
her  seat  by  the  window,  little  dreaming  that  the  holy  im 
pulses  of  pity  that  had  just  soothed  the  pain  of  a  fellow- 
creature  would  be  the  most  fatal  evidence  offered  at  her 
trial. 

"  Take  her  away — take  the  woman  hence  1"  cried  the 
magistrate,  rising  up,  hardened  in  all  his  iron  nature. 
"  The  devil,  her  master,  has  for  once  betrayed  her  into 
what  might  seem  an  angel's  work,  but  it  proves  more 
than  an  angel's  power — away  with  her  !" 

In  his  supreme  ignorance,  this  magistrate  of  the  seven 
teenth  century  followed  the  example  of  the  rabble  that 


THE    ACCUSERS    OF    BARBARA.          343 

hunted  our  Saviour  to  death.  Surely  the  world  had  pro 
gressed  but  slowly  in  its  soul  knowledge  since  that  awful 
day  of  the  crucifixion. 

While  Elizabeth  Parris  lay  sleeping  sweetly  in  her 
chair — it  was  the  first  slumber  she  had  known  in  three 
days — Barbara  Stafford  was  bound  again  with  those 
ignominious  thongs  and  taken  from  the  room.  Samuel 
Parris  watched  the  movements  with  a  thrill  of  com 
passion  :  grateful  for  the  rest  that  had  been  given  to  his 
child,  he  could  not  see  those  white  hands  bound  so  rudely 
without  a  thrill  of  pity. 

But  the  people  without  obtained  intelligence  of  what 
had  been  passing,  and  the  words  sacrilegious  and  blas 
phemy  ran  from  lip  to  lip.  "  What,"  said  one,  "  does  the 
witch  mock  the  holy  miracles  of  our  Saviour,  and  attempt 
to  heal  with  the  laying  on  of  hands  ?  Dares  she  to  brave 
God  in  the  very  presence  of  our  most  worshipful  magis 
trate,  and  that  gray-haired  Christian,  Samuel  Parris  ? 
Why  should  we  wait  for  a  trial  ?  is  not  this  evidence 
enough  ?  Let  us  take  her  down  to  the  sea  and  cast  her 
into  the  deep." 

"  Let  us  hang  her  at  the  town  post,"  cried  another. 
"  The  sea  has  vomited  her  up  once  ;  it  is  no  use  trying 
that." 

Then  other  voices  set  in,  and  the  tumult  became 
general.  The  throng  gathered  closer  and  closer  around 
the  minister's  house  ;  the  women  most  eager,  and  crying 
out  loudest  that  the  witch  should  be  given  up  to  them. 

The  magistrate  was,  so  far  as  he  allowed  his  own 
nature  freedom,  a  just  man,  and  fully  believed  himself 
right  in  giving  Barbara  up  to  the  law,  still  he  would  have 
guarded  her  with  his  life  from  the  howling  rage  of  the 
mob.  But  it  is  doubtful  if  even  his  steady  courage  could 


844        BARBAKA     IN     II  E  K     DUNGEON. 

have  saved  her,  so  intense  was  the  excitement;  but  just 
as  he  appeared  on  the  door-step  standing  in  front  of  the 
prisoner,  a  company  of  soldiers,  wearing  the  colonial  uni 
form,  came  galloping  up  the  forest  road  with  Norman 
Lovel,  Governor  Phipps's  private  secretary,  at  their  head. 

The  crowd  fell  back  tumultuously  as  the  young  mail 
came  forward,  for  he  dashed  on  with  little  regard  to  life 
or  limb,  and  drew  up  in  front  of  the  house. 

"Worshipful  sir,"  he  said,  addressing  the  magistrate, 
"I  have  come  to  relieve  you  of  a  painful  duty.  Here 
is  Governor  Phipps's  requisition.  This  lady  being  a 
stranger,  will  be  tried  where  his  excellency  can  himself 
have  cognizance  of  the  proceedings.  I  am  authorized  to 
convey  your  prisoner  to  Boston." 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

BARBARA   IN    HER   DUNGEON. 

THE  trees  were  leafless,  and  snow  lay  thick  on  the 
ground,  when  Barbara  Stafford  was  brought  from  the 
prison  where  she  had  been  kept  in  close  captivity,  and 
presented  for  trial  in  the  North  Church  of  Boston.  A 
trial  for  witchcraft  was  considered  somewhat  in  the  light 
of  an  ecclesiastical  tribunal,  and  thus  the  sacred  edifices  of 
Boston  and  Salem  were  frequently  used  in  such  cases. 
But  this  was  the  first  legal  assemblage  that  had  ever  entered 
the  North  Church,  for  the  governor's  attendance  and 
membership  there  gave  it  a  prestige  over  all  other  places 


BARBARA     IN     HER     DUNGEON.        345 

of  worship.  Besides  it  had  of  late  been  doubly  conse 
crated  by  the  baptism  of  the  chief  magistrate  in  the  very 
plentitude  of  his  power ;  and  for  common  witches,  such  as 
had  been  tried,  hung  and  drowned,  by  dozens  during 
the  year,  the  place  would  have  been  considered  far  too 
holy. 

But  Barbara  Stafford  was  no  common  offender.  She 
had  been  a  guest  in  Governor  Phipps's  mansion.  The 
people  of  Boston  had  seen  her  seated,  side  by  side,  with 
Lady  Phipps  in  the  state  carriage,  with  servitors  and  hal- 
berts,  right  and  left.  It  was  known  far  and  wide  that  she 
had  come  to  the  country  in  a  strange  ship,  heaved  up,  as 
it  were,  from  the  depths  of  a  raging  storm ;  that  the 
elements  had  battled  against  her  and  overwhelmed  her  in 
the  deep,  wrecking  the  boat  in  which  she  strove  to  reach, 
the  shore,  and  swallowing  her  up  in  whirlpools,  lashed 
into  fury  doubtless  by  her  evil  presence. 

From  all  this  peril  it  was  known  that  Samuel  Parris, 
the  minister  of  Salem,  had  rescued  her.  The  studious,  holy 
man  of  books  and  prayer,  who  had  saved  her  life,  was  now 
ready  to  stand  forward  as  her  chief  accuser. 

Many  remembered  that  her  garments  had  been  of  a  tex 
ture  more  rich  than  those  of  the  governor's  lady,  while 
many  who  had  been  present  at  the  baptism  of  Sir  William 
Phipps  were  impressed  by  the  grandeur  of  her  counte 
nance,  and  the  almost  unearthly  stateliness  with  which 
she  had  glided  through  the  throng  of  worshippers  on  that 
memorable  day. 

All  Jiese  things  made  a  great  impression  on  the  people, 
the  more  because  of  the  profound  silence  which  had 
reigned  regarding  her,  since  she  was  placed  in  the  prison 
at  Boston.  It  was  said  that,  during  the  first  three  days 
of  her  incarceration,  she  had  been  visited  by  Governor 


346       BARBARA     IX     HER     DUNGEON. 

Phipps,  who,  urged  by  the  solicitations  of  his  young 
secretary,  had  consented  to  see  her.  But  the  interview 
had  been  brief  and  unsatisfactory.  When  apprised  of  his 
coming,  the  lady  had  protested,  and  by  every  means  in  her 
power  sought  to  avoid  the  visit ;  but  young  Lovel  hoped 
to  gain  her  a  potent  friend  by  persistence,  and  overcome 
by  his  persuasion  she  submitted. 

Her  dungeon  was  badly  lighted,  and  Barbara  sat  in  the 
darkest  corner,  with  her  face  bowed  and  her  form  muffled 
in  a  large  shawl.  She  lifted  her  eyes  as  the  governor  ap 
proached,  and  he  felt  their  glance  coming  out  from  the 
darkness  without  really  meeting  it  with  his  eyes.  The 
thrill,  that  ran  through  his  form,  warned  him  of  the  dia 
bolical  power  which  the  woman  was  said  to  possess,  and  it 
was  with  a  solemn  reserve  that  he  drew  near  her. 

She  neither  spoke  nor  moved,  but  her  form  shrunk  to 
gether,  and  her  garments  began  to  tremble,  as  if  she  were 
suffering  from  cold.  He  spoke  to  her,  but  she  did  not 
answer.  He  stooped  down  to  address  her,  and  the 
shivering  fit  came  on  again.  His  stern  heart  was  filled 
with  compassion,  and  yet  she  had  not  spoken  a  word.  A 
gush  of  strange,  tender  pity  swelled  his  breast,  and  he 
turned  away,  with  dew  in  his  eyes — such  dew  as  had  net 
sparkled  there  in  twenty  years. 

He  went  back  and  bent  over  her ;  the  velvet  of  his  cloak 
swept  her  lap,  his  breath  almost  stirred  her  hair. 

She  gave  him  one  wild  look,  and  dropped  her  head 
again,  while,  with  her  two  hands,  she  grasped  a  fold  of 
his  cloak,  and  pressed  it  to  her  lips.  The  hands  fell  to 
her  knees,  the  cloak  swayed  back  to  its  natural  folds,  and 
he  was  all  unconscious  of  the  movement.  In  his  earnest 
ness,  and  compelled  by  a  power  that  endowed  him  with 
momentary  eloquence,  he  was  pleading  with  her  to  give 


BARBARA     IN     HEH     DUNGEON.        347 

her  true  name  and  history,  in  order  that  he  and  those  who 
wished  her  well  might  find  some  means  of  defence  when 
she  should  be  brought  to  trial. 

She  heard  him,  like  one  in  a  dream — a  sweet,  wild 
dream — for  her  lips  parted  with  a  heavenly  smile,  and 
she  held  her  breath,  as  if  it  had  been  a  delicious  perfume, 
which  she  would  not  permit  to  escape  from  the  bosom  it 
thrilled.  A  shiver  still  ran  through  her  frame.  It  was 
no  longer  as  an  expression  of  pain,  but  like  the  ex 
quisite  tremor  which  the  south  wind  gives  to  a  thicket 
of  roses. 

She  could  not  have  spoken,  had  the  whole  world 
depended  on  her  voice  ;  so  his  pleading  was  all  in  vain. 
Had  she  uttered  a  sound,  it  \vould  have  been  a  cry  of 
wild  thanksgiving.  Had  she  moved,  it  would  have  been 
to  throw  herself  at  his  feet.  She  did  move,  and  half  rose 
from  the  wooden  bench  on  which  she  was  seated,  but, 
seeing  young  Lovel  at  the  door,  fell  back  again,  shrouding 
her  face  in  the  shawl,  and  murmuring  prayers  of  entreaty 
and  gratitude  that  she  had  escaped  a  great  peril.  The 
shawl  muffled  her  voice,  but  the  governor  saw  that  she 
was  praying,  and  retreated  toward  the  door. 

"  Tell  her  to  think  of  what  I  have  said — to  send  me 
any  information — I  will  not  ask  it  to  be  a  confession — on 
which  she  may  found  a  defence  before  the  judges,"  he 
said,  addressing  young  Lovel;  "she  is  frightened  by  my 
presence  und  has  no  power  to  speak ;  persuade  her  to 
zonfide  in  you,  Norman.  Surely,  as  the  Lord  liveth,  this 
woman  has  some  great  power,  for  good  or  for  evil. 
Those  who  visited  Fetcr  in  his  prison  must  have  felt  as  I 
do  now." 

"  Hear  how  she  sobs  !"  said  the  young  man,  deeply 
moved.  "  Oh  !  your  excellency,  go  back  ;  her  heart  is 


348         BARBARA     IN      HER     DUNGEON. 

softened  ;  she  may  speak  to  you  now  ;  I  never  heard  hei 
weep  so  passionately  before." 

"  No,"  said  the  governor,  gently,  "  I  will  not  force 
myself  upon  her  grief.  Give  her  time  for  thought,  and 
opportunities  for  prayer.  The  devil  had  power  over  the 
Holy  One  forty  days  and  forty  nights.  It  may  be  that 
this  poor  lady  is  going  through  a  like  probation.  She 
may  come  forth  with  the  radiance  of  an  angel  at 
last." 

"  She  is  an  angel,"  answered  Lovel,  with  tender  en 
thusiasm.  "  Oh  !  if  she  could  but  be  brought  to  confide 
in  you." 

"  We  can  at  least  delay  the  trial,  and  give  her  time," 
said  the  governor.  "  Perhaps  this  scourge  of  the  evil 
one  may  pass  away  without  crushing  her,  if  she  is  pro 
tected  till  the  power  has  reached  its  climax." 

The  governor  went  away,  after  saying  this,  a  thoughtful 
and  saddened  man.  His  intellect  was  clear,  and  his 
strength  of  character  too  powerful  for  that  profound  faith 
in  witchcraft  which  influenced  many  of  the  clergy  and 
judges  of  the  land.  He  was  not  a  person  to  join  men, 
who  should  have  stood  between  the  superstition  of  igno 
rance  and  its  victims,  but  rather  gave  this  superstitious 
frenzy  the  force  of  their  superior  intelligence,  and  such 
dignity  as  sprang  from  position.  The  commotion  which 
this  subject  had  created  in  his  government — the  solemn 
trials  held  upon  helpless  old  men  and  women,  followed 
by  bloodshed  and  terror — had 'already  filled  his  mind  with 
misgiving.  Though,  for  a  season,  he  was  borne  forward 
by  the  public  clamor,  and  had  in  his  own  experience  no 
strong  proof  against  the  phenomena  produced  in  confirma 
tion  of  witchcraft,  he  had  never  entered  heartily  into  the 
persecutions  of  the  courts.  Nor  had  he  risen  up  against 


OLD     FRIENDS     IN     COUNCIL.  349 

them,  because  in  his  own  soul  there  was  doubt  and  mis 
giving. 

Barbara  Stafford  had  not  spoken  a  word  in  his  presence, 
yet  her  silence  and  the  very  atmosphere  of  truth  that  sur 
rounded  her  had  affected  him  deeply.  After  this  inter 
view  he  began  to  doubt  more  than  ever  if  the  great 
excitement  of  the  day  might  »ot  merge  into  persecution ; 
if  the  pure  and  the  good  might  not  possibly  suffer  with 
those  given  over  to  the  prince  of  darkness. 


CHAPTER    XLII. 

OLD   FRIENDS   IN   COUNCIL. 

WHEN  Sir  William  returned  home,  he  found  Samuel 
Parris,  his  old  patron  and  early  preceptor,  waiting  for 
him.  The  good  man  had  taken  his  staff  and  walked  all 
the  way  from  Salem,  to  seek  counsel  and  consolation  of 
his  powerful  friend. 

Between  these  two  men  was  a  tie  which  no  one  could 
fathom — a  tie  stronger  than  that  which  might  have  bound 
master  and  pupil,  or  benefactor  and  protege.  Phipps 
had  sprung  from  a  poor  apprentice  boy,  to  be  the  richest 
and  most  powerful  man  in  New  England.  He  had  won 
title  and  wealth  from  the  mother  government,  by  his 
indomitable  energies,  while  Samuel  Parris  had  dreamed 
his  life  away,  under  the  roof  where  the  embryo  great  man 
had  taken  his  first  charity  lesson.  But  though  one  was  a 


350  OLD     FRIENDS     IX     COUNCIL 

man  of  thought,  and  the  other  of  progress,  no  distance  of 
time  nor  station  could  separate  them. 

Governor  Phipps  was  in  the  prime  of  life,  a  man  of 
noble  presence,  strong  in  intellect  and  in  power.  Parris 
was  old  and  bowed  to  the  earth  with  trouble ;  the  white 
locks  floated  thinly  over  his  temples,  his  black  eyes  wei« 
sharp  and  wild  with  protracted  anguish.  But  the  two 
met  kindly,  as  they  had  done  years  before.  The  strong 
man  forgot  his  successful  ambition,  and  the  state  to  which 
it  had  led.  With  the  feeble  old  minister  he  was  an 
apprentice  boy  again. 

Sir  William  found  the  minister  sitting  in  his  library, 
exhausted  with  fatigue  and  completely  broken  down  by 
the  awful  affliction  that  bad  fallen  upon  him.  Dust  from 
the  road  lay  thick  upon  his  heavy  shoes  and  along  the 
seams  of  his  black  garments,  while  it  turned  his  snow 
white  hair  to  a  dull  gray.  His  stout  cane  was  planted 
hard  on  the  carpet,  and  his  weary  head  fell  on  tho 
withered  hands  clenched  tremulously  over  it. 

Thus  tired,  desolate,  and  broken-hearted,  the  old  man 
waited  for  his  former  pupil. 

"  My  dear,  old  master — my  best  friend  I"  cried  Phipps, 
smitten  with  a  thousand  memories,  both  of  pain  and 
pleasure  at  the  sight  of  his  preceptor.  "  I  can  guess  what 
has  brought  you  hither.  The  same  subject  is  weighing 
on  my  own  heart.  I  have  just  returned  from  a  confer 
ence  with  that  unhappy  lady/' 

Samuel  Parris  looked  up  eagerly. 

"You  saw  her?  She  spoke  with  you  ?  Tell  me,  tell 
me,  did  the  woman  confess?" 

"Nay,  she  did  not  speak." 

"  What,  obstinately  silent  ?  does  the  evil  spirit  take  that 
course  ?"  said  Parris 


OLD    FRIENDS    IN    COUNCIL.  351 

"  Not  obstinately  silent :  I  did  not  say  that ;  on  the 
contrary,  she  seemed  deeply  moved,  and  her  sobs  filled 
the  room  as  I  left  it." 

"But  she  confessed  nothing  ?" 

"  Nothing !" 

"  Nor  has  she  told  any  one  a  word  of  her  own  history  ?" 

"  Not  a  word." 

The  old  man  lifted  his  wild  eyes  to  those  of  his  friend, 
and  searched  the  expression  there  as  if  his  life  depended 
on  it. 

"  William  Phipps,  you  think  this  woman  innocent  ?" 

"  I  feel  that  she  is  innocent,  but  magistrates  do  not 
judge  by  feeling.  Justice  appeals  only  to  the  brain, 
while  mercy  is  a  child  of  the  heart.  Samuel  Parris,  as  I 
came  from  Barbara  Stafford's  prison,  it  was  with  a  thank 
ful  spirit  that  God  bad  not  made  me  one  of  her  judges." 

"  But  I — I  am  her  accuser  !"  cried  out  the  old  man,  in 
passionate  sorrow. 

"But  you  had  good  grounds.  This  charge  came  not 
from  you  or  yours,  lightly  or  with  malice  :  of  that  I  am 
certain,"  said  the  governor,  soothingly. 

"  But  it  came  from  me  in  terror  and  sore  perplexity. 
The  sight  of  my  child  possessed  with  the  evil  one  urged 
me  on.  William,  William.  I  thought  of  her,  rather  than 
of  God's  service  I  It  is  this  that  troubles  me." 

"But  how  of  the  maiden  ?  Is  she  better  or  does  this 
fiend  rend  her  yet  ?" 

"  She  is  better.  Since  the  sound  sleep  into  which  the 
woman  cast  her,  Elizabeth  has  been  quiet ;  but  thoughtful 
as  I  never  saw  her  before.  The  flush  has  left  her  face 
and  half  the  time  her  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  but  she  says 
little." 

"  These  are  favorable  symptoms,"  answered  Sir  William 
22 


352  OLD    FRIENDS    IN    COUNCIL. 

"Does  the  maiden  still  persist  in  thinking  this  woman  tho 
cause  of  her  malady  ?" 

"  Both  its  cause  and  its  cure.  To  her  she  has  been  an 
angel  of  wrath  and  of  mercy  both.  But  another  cause 
of  sorrow  has  sprung  up  in  my  household — Abigail  Wil 
liams  1" 

"What,  the  dark-eyed  girl  that  Lady  Phipps  thought 
so  beautiful  ?  Has  this  wicked  contagion  seized  on  her 
also  ?" 

"  Worse  than  my  child.  She  seems  smitten  to  the  soul 
with  sullen  sorrow  and  deadly  hate.  Above  all  she  dreaded 
old  Tituba,  who  followed  her  from  room  to  room  like  a 
dog  at  first,  but  when  the  girl  drove  her  away,  she  sat 
down  on  the  kitchen  hearth  with  her  feet  in  the  ashes, 
refusing  to  eat  or  sleep,  but  kept  up  a  weird  chant  that 
filled  the  house  night  and  day  with  deathly  music." 

"  Does  this  old  woman  accuse  any  one  ?" 

"  Nay,  she  simply  accused  herself.  Once  or  twice  she 
has  gone  out  to  the  forest  and  stayed  all  day.  At  last 
she  persuaded  Abigail  to  go  into  the  woods  with  her. 
After  that,  the  strange  animosity  which  had  seized  upon 

the  maiden  died  out,  and  she  was  much  with  old  Tituba 

i 

who  went  quietly  about  her  household  work  again." 

Sir  William  listened  to  all  this  with  grave  attention.  He 
was  striving  to  judge  how  far  the  disturbed  state  of  the 
minister's  household  had  arisen  from  natural  causes,  but  in 
his  profound  ignorance  of  all  those  sources  of  irritation 
which  had  preceded  Barbara  Stafford's  arrest,  he  was 
unable  to  give  them  any  solution  save  that  of  witchcraft, 
strongly  as  his  sound  judgment  rebelled  against  it. 

"Tell  me,  and  speak  I  adjure  you  in  the  fear  of  God — 
tell  me,  William  Phipps,  if  after  hearing  the  evidence  on 
which  I  have  accused  this  woman,  vou  can  find  one 


OLD     FRIENDS    IN    COUNCIL.  353 

reason  for  thinking  the  charge  of  witchcraft  without  just 
foundation." 

The  governor,  who  sat  with  his  elbow  resting  on  the 
library  table,  bent  his  forehead  thoughtfully  on  one  hand. 

"Friend,  you  ask  a  solemn  question,  and  I  will  sol 
emnly  answer  it.  Before  the  Most  High  I  cannot  yet 
give  a  full  and  free  belief  to  this  enormity,  which  men  call 
witchcraft.  Yet  when  such  judges  as  Hale,  and  many  of 
like  sort,  give  it  credence,  and  hold  solemn  tribunals 
over  it,  I  dare  not  oppose  my  judgment  against  theirs." 

Samuel  Parris  arose  to  his  feet  and  leaned  heavily  on 
his  cane  for  support. 

"  What  if  these  doubts  be  true  ?"  he  said,  moving  his 
head  and  looking  away  into  vacancy.  "  Then  what  am  I 
but  a  bearer  of  false  witness,  a  persecutor,  and  if  this  lady 
is  driven  to  her  death,  a  murderer  !" 

"  We  can  but  walk  according  to  the  light  which  God 
has  given  us,"  answered  Sir  William. 

"  Tell  me,"  continued  Parris,  "  did  this  woman  impress 
you  with  a  sense  of  her  diabolical  power  ?  Did  yonr 
heart  beat  evenly  as  she  spoke  ?  Could  you  breath  with 
out  an  effort  ?" 

"Nay,  I  cannot  tell  if  the  sensation  I  felt  was  evil  or 
good,"  Phipps  answered.  "  Compassion  never  yet  swelled 
my  heart  so  near  to  bursting.  I  tell  you  of  a  truth,  Samuel 
Parris,  when  I  was  talking  to  that  unhappy  woman,  I 
felt  my  knees  shake,  my  breath  stand  still,  and  my  very 
being  go  out  to  her  in  a  flood  of  sorrowful  tenderness, 
such  as  I  never  felt  for  mortal  woman — but  one." 

"  Then — then — you  did  think  of  her!"  cried  Parris,  sud 
denly  standing  upright.  "  That  was  the  question  I  dared 
not  ask.  Has  her  memory  haunted  you  as  it  besets  me, 


354  OLD    FRIENDS    IN    COUNCIL. 

night  and  day,  not  only  now  but  ever  since   that   ship 
came  drifting  toward  me  through  the  storm  ?" 

"  Hush  !'*  said  the  governor,  and  his  voice  scarcely  rose 
above  a  whisper,  while  his  face  turned  coldly  white.  "  If 
this  thing  is  witchcraft  may  it  not  drag  the  memories  we 
love  out  of  the  very  grave  to  haunt  us  ?" 

"  Even  so  I  have  reasoned,"  answered  Parris. 

"  God  help  us  !"  exclaimed  Phipps,  rising  and  beginning 
to  pace  the  room  with  long,  powerful  strides,  "  for  we  have 
fallen  on  evil  times." 

Samuel  Parris  followed  his  friend's  tall  figure  as  it 
strode  to  and  fro  in  the  room  with  wistful  interest. 

"I  came  hither  for  counsel  of  thy  younger  and  more 
vigorous  mind,"  he  said,  with  touching  melancholy,  "but 
everywhere  that  my  footsteps  turn,  doubt  and  terror 
spring  up.  It  grieves  me  sorely,  son  William,  that  my 
words  have  driven  the  color  from  that  face,  and  the  calm 
from  thy  bosom.  Forgive  me  before  I  go !" 

Phipps  broke  off  abruptly  in  his  walk.  His  grand  face 
had  regained  its  composure :  it  was  pale  still,  but  reso 
lutely  calm. 

"  Father,"  he  said,  gently,  using  an  old  term  of  endear 
ment,  "  I  am  unfit  to  give  counsel  in  this  matter.  See  you 
not  how  weak  I  am  ?" 

Parris  took  the  hand  held  out  to  him  and  pressed  it  with 
solemn  fervor. 

"William,  I  too  will  see  this  woman  in  prison  :  perad- 
vcnture  some  light  may  be  vouchsafed  to  me." 

"After  that,  come  to  me  again,"  said  the  governor. 

Thus  the  two  friends  parted. 

The  minister  did  indeed  go  to  the  prison,  where  his 
victim  was  confined,  bat  she  resolutely  refused  to  see  him. 
"No  good  could  come  of  the  interview,"  she  said.  "  She 


OLD    FRIENDS    IN    COUNCIL.  355 

was  resigned  to  her  fate,  and  only  asked  to  be  left  in  quiet 
till  her  day  of  humiliation  came  on."  The  only  person 
that  she  would  permit  to  enter  her  presence  was  Norman 
Lovel,  whose  faith  in  her  goodness  had  never  been  shaken 
for  an  instant.  Twice  a  dark-browed  and  singularly 
handsome  young  man  made  urgent  solicitation  to  be 
admitted  to  her  prison,  but  she  never  heard  of  it.  Being 
a  stranger  of  singular  appearance,  the  guard  had  refused 
him  without  communicating  his  wish  to  her,  but  the  fact 
was  stated  to  Samuel  Parris  with  such  interpretation  as 
an  ignorant  and  superstitious  man  might  be  expected  to 
give.  To  him  the  singular  beauty  of  the  visitor's  face, 
the  magnificent  eyes  and  raven  hair,  could  alone  belong 
to  the  evil  one  himself.  Certain  it  was,  no  human  being 
like  that  had  ever  been  recognized  by  any  one  in  or  out 
of  the  city  till  he  began  to  haunt  the  witch-prison. 

Here  was  new  cause  for  suspicion,  and  once  more 
the  minister's  heart  hardened  itself.  Disappointed  in  his 
hopes  of  counsel  from  the  governor,  the  restless  man  be 
took  himself  to  his  brother  divines,  and  told  them  his 
doubts  and  sorrows  with  the  simple  truth  so  natural  to  his 
character.  When  he  described  the  condition  of  his  child 
and  told  how  Barbara  Stafford,  who  seemed  at  first  an 
angel  of  light,  had  wrought  a  fiend's  work  in  his  household, 
the  ministers  rebuked  his  unbelief  and  reasoned  with  him 
diligently,  till  he  began  to  look  upon  his  gentler  feelings 
as  a  snare  of  Satan,  ever  on  the  alert  to  save  his  own. 
To  this  belief,  at  last,  Sir  William  Phipps  brought  himself, 
but  slowly  and  with  reluctance.  His  heart  smote  him 
as  he  gave  the  lady  up,  but  how  would  he  oppose  such 
evidence?  After  admitting  so  much  it  was  impossible 
for  a  just  man  to  feel  any  thing  but  holy  indignation 


356  THE     MINISTERS     EVIDENCE. 

against  the  person  who  had,  by  satanic  power,  disturbed 
the  beautiful  character  of  his  favorite  Elizabeth  Parrig. 

From  that  time  be  began  to  look  upon  the  interest 
which  young  Lovel  manifested  in  the  prisoner  as  a 
proof  of  her  pernicious  influence,  and  rebuked  the  young 
man  sternly  when  he  sought  to  arouse  kindly  feelings  in 
her  behalf  once  more. 

Thus  weeks  and  months  went  by,  leaving  Barbara 
Stafford  in  miserable  solitude,  till  the  frost  crept  over  the 
forest,  and  the  white  snow  fell  upon  the  earth  like  a 
winding  sheet ;  then  they  brought  her  forth  for  trial. 


CHAPTER   XLIII. 

THE  MINISTER'S  EVIDENCE. 

THE  trial  was  one  which  filled  the  community  with  a 
certain  sense  of  awe.  It  was  no  old  woman,  brought  up 
in  their  midst,  whose  very  ignorance  could  be  urged  in 
judgment  against  her  ;  but  a  brave,  beautiful  lady,  full  of 
life,  and  bright  with  intellect,  whose  very  presence  as  she 
•walked  up  those  aisles,  with  a  forest  of  halberts  bristling 
around  her,  made  the  proudest  of  her  judges  hold  his 
breath.  The  prisoner  sat  down  upon  a  bench  placed  near 
the  pulpit,  within  sight  of  the  communion-table  which  was 
surrounded  by  her  judges,  for  whom  a  platform  had  been 
built,  lifting  them  in  sight  of  the  people.  She  was  very 
pale,  and  her  eyes  had  a  mournful  look  inexpressibly 
touching,  but  there  was  neither  timidity  nor  unconcern  in 


THE   MINISTER'S   EVIDENCE.        357 

her  appearance  ;  she  seemed  quiet  as  a  lamb,  but  weary 
unto  death,  like  one  who  had  been  driven  a  long  way,  and 
through  rough  places,  to  be  slaughtered  at  last. 

The  meeting-house  was  crowded.  The  square  pews, 
the  galleries  and  staircases,  groaned  under  a  weight  of 
human  life.  Men  crowded  upon  each  other,  like  hounds 
on  the  scent,  only  to  obtain  a  glimpse  of  the  beautiful 
witch,  or  to  catch  a  tone  of  her  voice.  Like  sportsmen 
who  had  brought  down  a  splendid  bird  in  their  search  after 
common  game,  the  rabble  gloried  in  the  queenliness  and 
grace  of  its  victim.  The  public  had  become  tired  of  hang 
ing  withered  old  crones  on  the  witch-gallows,  and  wanted 
exactly  a  creature  like  that,  to  give  piquancy  and  zest  to 
their  terrible  hunt  after  human  life. 

Inside  and  out,  the  meeting-house  was  beset  with  a 
breathless  throng.  The  windows  were  open,  though  the 
air  was  sharp  and  full  of  frost,  that  the  curious  crowd, 
which  trampled  down  the  snow  without,  might  get  a 
glimpse  of  that  pale  face.  The  forest,  out  of  whose  bosom 
the  city  of  Boston  had  been  cut,  swept  down  close  to  the 
building,  and  the  crowd  extended  into  its  margin.  It  was 
observed  that  a  few  Indians  mingled  with  the  people  in  this 
direction,  and  that  others  were  occasionally  seen  moving 
among  the  naked  trees  farther  up  the  woods,  where  a 
hemlock  hollow  broke  oft0  the  view. 

When  the  trial  commenced,  and  the  prosecuting  attor 
ney  was  about  to  open  his  case,  drawing  all  eyes  to  the 
meeting-house  and  the  proceedings  within,  a  train  of 
savages  came  gliding  out  of  these  hemlock  shadows,  and 
mingling  imperceptibly  with  the  crowd,  through  which 
they  moved  like  a  brook  stirring  the  long  grass  of  a 
meadow. 

It  was  a  common  thing  for  friendly  Indians  to  mix  in 


358          THE     If  I  N  1  8  T  K  R'S     EVIDENCE. 

such  crowds,  and  no  one  observed  that  a  sort  of  military 
precision  marked  the  movement  of  these  seemingly 
friendly  savages,  even  while  penetrating  the  multitude, 
and  that  they  dropped  into  line,  after  entering  the  meet 
ing-house,  forming  a  cordon  from  the  platform,  on  which 
the  judges  sat,  to  the  front  entrance  doors. 

Had  these  savages  been  in  full  costume,  their  number 
might  have  seemed  formidable  enough  to  excite  some 
anxiety;  but  they  wore  no  war-paint,  and  came  after  the 
fashion  of  a  friendly  nation,  with  blankets  to  keep  them 
from  the  cold,  and  a  movement  so  quiet  that  their  very 
presence  gave  little  apprehension. 

At  their  bead,  and  walking  so  far  in  advance  that  no 
one  but  a  keen  observer  would  have  guessed  him  of  the 
party,  came  a  young  man,  handsomely  garbed  after  the 
fashion  of  the  times,  as  a  person  of  condition  might  be, 
and  with  a  certain  air  of  self-centred  ease  that  would  have 
distinguished  him  in  any  place  where  the  general  attention 
was  not  fixed  on  one  point. 

He  was  a  young  man  of  wonderful  presence,  dark  like 
a  Spaniard,  with  quick,  brilliant  eyes,  and  features  finely 
chiselled,  bold  in  the  outline,  and  yet  delicate.  His  mouth 
had  a  beautiful  power  of  expression,  and  his  forehead  was 
like  dusky  marble,  cut  when  the  artist  was  thinking 
of  war  and  tempest.  This  man  had  made  his  way  close 
up  to  the  platform,  where  the  judges  were  seated,  and  lis 
tened  with  keen  attention  to  the  proceedings. 

The  prosecuting  counsel  opened  his  case  with  great 
vigor  and  eloquence.  Then  witnesses  for  the  crown 
were  called,  and  Samuel  Parris  stood  forth.  The  old  man 
was  agitated,  but  firm  in  his  sense  of  right.  It  was 
seldom  that  a  witness  of  so  much  dignity  appeared  upon 
a  trial  like  that,  for  usually  the  accusers,  like  their  victims, 


THE    MINISTER'S   EVIDENCE.       359 

were  persons  of  low  position  and  small  attainments.  Here 
the  wisdom  and  piety  of  the  crowd  rose  up  in  array  against 
one  helpless  woman. 

Samuel  Parris  required  no  questioning.  He  told  his 
story  with  brief  earnestness,  unconsciously  drawing  con 
clusions  from  the  facts  he  related,  fatal  to  the  prisoner, 
but  with  a  solemn  conviction  of  their  truth. 

"  Did  he  recognize  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  ?"  he  was 
asked.  "Yes,  he  had  known  her  some  months;  it  had 
seemed  to  him  from  the  first  that  she  must  have  been 
familiar  to  him  years  ago.  That  was  doubtless  one  of 
her  delusions  ;  but  the  feeling  had  led  him  to  think  of  her 
with  friendly  interest,  and  extend  hospitalities  which  had 
conducted  him  and  his  family  into  a  deadly  snare." 

"  Where  had  he  seen  her  first  ?" 

"  In  the  midst  of  a  terrible  storm,  which  the  inhabitants 
of  Boston  might  well  remember;  when  the  shores  were 
lashed  and  trampled  down  by  the  tempest,  where  the 
waves  rioted  and  tore  against  each  other  like  mad  animals, 
and  out  to  sea  all  was  one  turmoil  of  wind,  waters,  and 
black,  angry  clouds. 

"That  woman's  influence  must  have  been  infernal  in 
its  power,  for  in  the  midst  of  this  storm  he  had  been 
impelled  forth  to  the  heights — he,  a  feeble  old  man,  urged 
forward  by  a  premonition,  that,  in  the  black  turmoil  of 
the  tempest,  he  would  find  something  waited  for  all  bis 
life.  He  went,  with  his  garments  in  the  wind,  and  the 
cold  rain  beating  against  his  temples — went,  and  saw,  in 
the  midst  of  the  storm,  a  great  ship  heaving  shoreward, 
with  vast  clouds  falling  around  her,  lurid  and  luminous 
with  a  red  sunset,  in  the  midst  of  which  stood  that 
woman — the  prisoner.  As  he  watched,  a  young  man  had 
come  up  to  him  on  the  heights,  even  Norman  Lovel,  the 


360       THE    MINISTER'S   EVIDENCE. 

youth  vtho  was  but  now  whispering  to  the  woman.  This 
young  man  confessed  there,  in  the  whirl  of  the  wind,  that 
he,  too,  had  been  impelled  to  seek  the  shore,  and  look  for 
some  great  good,  which  was  to  come  to  him  up  from  the 
stormy  sea. 

"  They  saw  the  ship  in  company.  That  woman  was 
upon  its  deck,  around  her  surged  angry  billows  and  loom 
ing  clouds,  fringed  for  a  moment  by  the  sunset. 

"  They  saw  the  woman  come  down  the  side  of  the 
vessel,  where  it  rocked  and  plunged  like  a  desert  horse  in 
the  lasso  ;  saw  her  put  off  in  a  small  boat,  amid  the  boil 
ing  waves ;  saw  the  boat  leap  and  reel  toward  the  land. 
He  and  young  Lovel  rushed  down  together  to  the  base 
of  the  hills,  far  into  the  waves.  They  saw  the  boat  strike, 
saw  it  crushed  into  atoms  among  the  rocks,  and  saw  the 
woman  weltering  in  a  whirlpool  of  waters.  The  two,  he 
and  the  young  man,  rushed  into  the  waves,  breasted  them, 
battled  with  them  like  lions.  A  wild  strength  came  to 
his  arms,  a  supernatural  power,  that  neither  belonged  to 
his  feeble  organization  nor  his  age.  From  that  time,  no 
doubt,  the  evil  one  possessed  him.  How  he  tore  the 
woman  from  the  waves  that  had  engulfed  her  he  never 
knew ;  for  the  youth  was  hurled  upon  the  shore,  cold  and 
dead,  grasping  her  garments  with  both  hands. 

"  The  youth  was  dead,  he  could  solemnly  testify  to 
that,  for  he  felt  his  pulse,  and  kept  one  hand  long  over 
his  heart  feeling  for  the  hushed  life,  but  there  was  neither 
breath  nor  pulse — Lazarus,  in  his  tomb,  was  not  more 
lifeless  when  the  Saviour  looked  upon  him.  Yes,  the 
youth  was  surely  dead.  But  when  the  woman  arose 
from  the  sand,  with  her  hair  dropping  salt  rain,  and  her 
lips  purple  with  cold,  she  saw  him  lying  there,  prone  and 
white  at  her  side.  Then  her  pale  face  lighted  up  with 


THE    MINISTER'S   EVIDENCE.      361 

supernatural  gleams.  She  lifted  his  head  and  breathed 
upon  it.  She  gathered  him  to  her  bosom,  and  pressed  her 
cold  lips  down  upon  his  forehead  and  his  marble  mouth — 
those  kisses,  the  unearthly  warmth  of  her  eyes,  brought 
him  to  life.  She  had  purchased  immortality  of  the  evil 
one,  and  gave  part  of  it  to  him. 

"  This  was  the  one  great  act  of  sorcery  that  he  bad  wit 
nessed,  and  to  which  he  now  bore  testimony  before  the 
most  high  God.  After  that,  the  woman  obtained  an 
unbounded  power  over  the  youth,  who  manifested  an 
uncontrollable  desire  for  her  company  ;  he  had  neglected 
his  old  friends  and  the  most  binding  attachments ;  body 
and  soul  he  had  become  the  serf  of  her  diabolical  power." 

Here  Samuel  Parris  paused.  The  perspiration  rose  in 
great  drops  to  his  forehead,  his  hands  shook  as  he  wiped 
the  moisture  away. 

"And  is  this  all  ?"  demanded  the  judge,  while  the 
audience  broke  the  silence  by  hoarse  murmurs,  that  stole 
through  the  windows,  and  grew  louder  as  the  people  out 
side  took  them  up.  "  Is  this  all  ?" 

"No,"  said  the  old  man,  and  the  white  hair  rose  slowly 
from  his  temples,  while  shadows  gathered  about  his 
mouth,  "  I,  too,  was  in  the  hands  of  this  woman  of  Endor 
— I,  the  servant  of  the  Lord,  who  have  broken  the  holy 
bread  to  God's  p.-ople  for  more  than  fifty  years.  Here, 
in  this  consecrated  building,  while  I  stood  with  the  sacred 
wire  in  mj  hands,  after  that  just  man,  William  Phipps, 
ha  drauk  ot  it  in  baptism,  this  woman  appeared  to  me. 
Standing  in  the  very  spot  where  he  had  partaken  of  the 
sacrament,  she  appeared  to  me  as  an  angel  of  light,  for 
her  eyes  shone  like  stars,  and  a  smile  of  tender  humility 
beamed  on  her  face — with  those  eyes,  with  that  smile, 
and  with  a  voice  that  might  have  dropped  from  tbe 


362       THE   MINISTER'S   EVIDENCE. 

golden  harps  to  which  cherubs  sing.  She  won  me  into  a 
great  sacrilege." 

Again  the  minister  wiped  his  brow ;  the  judge  grew 
pale,  and  leaned  forward  breathlessly.  The  audience  was 
btill  as  death  ;  you  could  hear  the  shivering  of  the  naked 
tree  boughs  afar  off  in  the  forest,  but  nothing  nearer. 

AmiJ  this  appalling  hush,  Barbara  Stafford  lifted  her 
face  to  the  witness,  and  a  faint,  pitying  smile  lay  like  a 
shadow  on  her  lips.  She  seemed  about  to  speak,  but  the 
judge  lifted  his  hand. 

"A  great  sacrilege,  brother  Parris  ?" 

The  minister  cast  a  pleading  look  upon  the  judges  at 
the  bar  and  his  brethren  of  the  ministry,  as  if  beseeching 
forbearance. 

"Yes!  a  great  sacrilege.  As  I  stood,  with  the  un 
leavened  bread  before  me  and  the  sacred  wine  in  my 
hand — stood  alone  in  this  holy  building,  for  all  else  had 
departed — the  prisoner,  Barbara  Stafford,  by  the  sweet 
wiles  which  I  speak  of,  won  me  to  give  the  wine  to  her, 
that  she  might  taste  it ;  and  so  beguiled  of  the  devil,  I 
broke  with  her  of  the  bread  which  is  a  symbol  of  the 
body  of  Christ.  This,  brethren,  was  my  sin — I  was  beset 
of  the  evil  one  and  fell !" 

A  groan  broke  from  the  ministers  that  heard  the  con 
fession.  The  judge  bent  his  forehead  tc  the  palm  of  his 
hand,  shading  the  pallor  of  his  features.  The  foreman  of 
the  jury  muttered  a  low  prayer,  and  the  jvry  whispered 
a  solemn  amen. 

Even  the  face  of  young  LoVel  took  aa  expression  of 
affright.  The  stillness  that  reigned  in  the  body  of  the 
house  was  appalling. 


PROGRESS     OF     THE    TRIAL.  863 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

PROGRESS   OF   THE   TRIAL. 

THE  old  minister  sat  down,  shading  his  face  with  both 
hands  ;  then,  in  his  place  stood  Elizabeth,  pale,  thin,  wild. 
The  shadow  of  her  former  beauty  seemed  hanging  around 
her  like  a  shroud. 

When  she  saw  her  lover  standing  close  to  Barbara 
Stafford,  a  faint  glow  stole  over  her  cheek,  as  if  a  peach 
blossom  had  blown  across  it,  leaving  its  reflection  behind. 

The  judge  lifted  his  head  and  looked  kindly  upon  her. 
The  jury  whispered  together,  and  cast  pitying  glances 
that  way ;  and  through  all  that  vast  crowd  a  thrill  of 
sympathy  ran. 

Poor  girl !  she  was  sincere  as  a  child,  earnest  as  a 

v. 

woman.  She  told  of  the  power  of  love  and  hate  which 
Barbara  Stafford  had  attained  over  her;  how,  in  her 
absence,  the  most  bitter  dislike  filled  her  bosom,  but  when 
Barbara's  eyes  were  upon  her,  or  her  voice  in  her  ear,  a 
sweet  revulsion  followed,  and  she  was  like  a  babe,  or  a 
slave,  in  the  woman's  presence.  She  spoke  of  the  time 
when  Barbara  came  to  the  parsonage  at  Salem,  of  the 
strange  effect  it  had  upon  Abby  Williams,  and  the  more 
terrible  results  to  herself.  Then  she  said  the  presence  of 
this  woman  became  a  torture.  When  she  spoke,  a  knife 
pierced  her  heart;  when  she  smiled,  lurid  fire  seemed 
creeping  over  her  brain.  At  last,  her  entire  being  was 
given  up  to  the  sorceress,  whose  power  filled  her  room 
with  strange  shapes,  that  tormented  the  sleep  from  her 


364  PROGRESS     OF     THE    TRIAL. 

eyes,  and  all  peace  from  her  heart.  She  was  better  now. 
The  prayers  of  her  Christian  father  had  emancipated  her; 
but  the  judges  might  see  by  her  pale  face,  and  thin  hands, 
how  fatally  the  curse  had  fastened  on  her  life. 

"  Had  she  seen  no  further  proof  of  the  infernal  powers 
of  the  prisoner  ?" 

"  Yes.  One  morning,  just  at  daylight,  while  standing 
at  her  bedroom  window,  she  saw  what  seemed  to  be  the 
figure  of  Barbara  Stafford,  riding  out  of  the  forest  on  a 
white  horse.  She  turned  her  eyes  away  for  a  moment, 
and,  lo  !  the  horse  was  gone,  and  the  woman  stood  on  the 
green  sward  alone.  Determined  to  satisfy  herself  if  it 
was  in  reality  a  witch  spirit,  or  the  woman  in  person,  she 
went  into  Barbara  Stafford's  chamber  and  found  her  in 
bed  and  asleep.  Old  Tituba  could  bear  testimony  to  this, 
for  she  also  went  into  the  prisoner's  room,  and  saw  her 
lying  on  the  bed  so  buried  in  slumber  that  all  the  noise 
they  made  on  entering  did  not  arouse  her.  As  for  the 
white  horse,  she  saw  it  as  plainly,  with  that  woman  on  its 
back,  as  she  ever  saw  the  sun  at  midday." 

This  was  the  evidence  of  Elizabeth  Parris.  She  laid  all 
the  pains  of  her  jealous  heart  open  to  the  judges,  and  in 
the  natural  agony  of  disturbed  love  they  read  only  the 
power  of  witchcraft.  Reticent  from  the  exquisite  delicacy 
which  made  her  susceptible  to  so  much  pain,  she  did  not 
mention  Norman  Lovel  in  her  evidence  ;  thus,  all  clue  to 
the  origin  of  her  suffering  was  concealed. 

When  her  evidence  was  complete,  Elizabeth  fainted, 
and  was  borne  from  the  court  in  the  arms  of  Norman 
Lovel,  who,  touched  by  her  gentleness  and  her  innocent 
confession,  sprang  forward  to  save  her  from  falling. 

Governor  Phipps  appeared  as  the  third  witness,  and 
it  was  remarked  that,  for  the  first  time  that  day,  Barbara 


PROGRESS     OF     THE     TRIAL.  365 

Stafford  became  greatly  agitated ;  her  lips,  hitherto 
serenely  closed,  began  to  quiver  ;  her  eyes  dilated,  and 
the  blue  tints  deepened  under  them.  When  he  spoke,  her 
hands  clasped  and  unclasped  themselves,  nervously,  under 
her  shawl.  Once  she  arose  and  looked  around,  as  if 
tempted  to  fly  into  the  open  air. 

But  the  constable  laid  his  heavy  hand  on  her,  remind 
ing  her  that  she  was  a  prisoner.  She  -looked  in  his  face 
with  a  bewildered  stare,  remembered  what  she  was,  and 
sat  down  with  a  dreary  smile  about  her  lips. 

Sir  William  Phipps  was  also  greatly  agitated.  He  had 
been  summoned  by  the  court,  and  with  proud  humility 
obeyed  its  behests. 

"To  the  best  of  his  remembrance,"  he  said,  "he  had 
never  met  the  prisoner  but  three  times  in  his  life  :  once  at 
his  own  door,  when,  by  mistake,  he  for  a  moment  thought 
her  to  be  Lady  Phipps." 

Here  a  low  moan  broke  from  the  neighborhood  of  the 
prisoner ;  but,  if  it  came  from  her,  the  anguish  to  which  it 
gave  voice  was  instantly  suppressed. 

Barbara  was  looking  at  the  witness.  The  light  fell  on 
his  face,  but  hers  was  in  shadow,  still  and  white  like  that 
of  a  marble  statue. 

"Yes,  for  a  moment,"  he  resumed,  "he  had  mistaken 
the  prisoner  for  his  wife,  and  in  the  darkness  held  her  to 
his  bosom  for  a  single  moment;  during  that  brief  time,  a 
strange  swell  heaved  at  his  heart,  and  took  away  his 
breath  ;  it  subsided  into  a  heavy  pain,  which  hung  about 
him  for  days,  though  the  woman  had  departed  before  he 
could  look  upon  her  face,  and  he  had  not  heard  the  sound 
of  her  voice.  This  pain  had  seized  him  once  before  while 
he  stood  in  that  sacred  building,  with  the  sacramental 
wine  at  his  lips  ;  and  he  was  informed  afterwards  that 


366  PROGRESS     OF     THE     TRIAL. 

the  prisoner  had  entered  the  house  just  as  he  took  the 
goblet  in  his  hand.  Again  her  supernatural  influence — 
for  he  could  account  for  these  sensations  no  other  way — 
had  been  exerted  on  him  as  he  entered  her  place  of  con 
finement,  for  such  was  the  compassion  she  inspired,  had 
it  rested  with  him,  his  own  hands  would  have  been  im 
pelled  to  open  her  prison  doors  and  set  her  free." 

As  the  governor  uttered  these  words,  Barbara  Stafford's 
eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  a  glow  of  exquisite  tenderness 
softened  her  face.  She  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  then  the 
tears  began  to  drop,  large  and  fast,  from  her  eyes,  as  if 
her  very  heart  were  breaking. 

Unimportant  as  the  governor's  evidence  might  seem  in 
these  days,  it  had  a  powerful  effect  upon  the  court.  He 
was  known  among  the  people  as  a  stern,  proud  man,  cold 
as  steel,  but  just  beyond  question,  even  to  the  sacrificing 
of  his  own  life,  had  it  been  forfeited  to  the  law.  That  he 
should  be  influenced  to  such  tenderness  of  compassion, 
against  his  reason,  and  in  spite  of  himself,  was,  to  the 
people  who  listened,  deeper  proofs  of  witchcraft  than  the 
facts  to  which  Samuel  Parris  had  sworn.  He  was  known 
as  a  tender-hearted,  visionary  old  man,  half  poet,  half 
philosopher,  by  all  the  country  round.  But  the  governor 
— whoever  supposed  that  sentiment  or  imagination  could 
cloud  his  clear  judgment  ? 

Thus,  though  the  governor  was  guarded  in  his  evidence, 
which  to  men  less  influenced  by  superstition  would  have 
been  nothing,  it  bore  heavily  against  the  unhappy  woman 
looking  at  him  so  wistfully  through  her  blinding  tears. 

After  this,  Norman  Lovel  was  brought  to  the  stand, 
sorely  against  his  will,  for  though,  in  the  depths  of  his 
eoul,  he  was  satisfied  that  the  influence  which  the  noble 
woman  possessed  was  only  such  as  God  always  lends  to 


PROGRESS     OF     THE     TRIAL.  367 

true  greatness,  he  could  not,  after  those  who  had  gone 
before,  urge  his  convictions  on  the  court,  and  alas  !  the 
facts  he  had  no  power  to  contradict :  they  were  even 
as  Samuel  Parris  had  sworn  them  to  be. 

When  Barbara  Stafford  saw  his  troubled  look,  she 
beckoned  him  toward  her,  and  before  the  constable  could 
interfere,  bade  him  be  of  good  courage  and  speak  the  truth, 
trusting  her  with  the  Lord. 

It  could  not  have  been  otherwise.  He  did  speak  the 
truth,  and  his  very  efforts  to  explain  and  soften  the  facts 
which  Samuel  Parris  had  stated,  only  served  to  preju 
dice  the  jury  more  deeply.  These  astute  men  bright 
ened  up,  and  crowding  their  heads  close  together,  whis 
pered  that  it  was  easy  to  see  the  influence  of  the  beautiful 
witch  strong  upon  him,  and,  therefore,  his  words  must  be 
weighed  with  grave  caution,  as  coming  directly  from  the 
father  of  lies. 

Then  Abigail  Williams  came  forward,  but  her  evidence 
was  clearly  in  favor  of  the  prisoner.  She  disclaimed  all 
impressions  of  evil  obtained  from  the  accused  lady,  so  far 
as  she  was  concerned.  She  admitted  that  a  sudden  and 
great  cause  of  grief  had  fallen  upon  her — that  she  had 
been  influenced  against  her  friends,  and  suffered  greatly 
by  day  and  by  night,  but  Barbara  Stafford  was  not  the 
cause  ;  of  her  she  only  knew  what  was  feminine  and  good. 
When  questioned  regarding  the  sources  of  her  knowledge, 
and  of  her  estrangement,  she  refused  to  speak.  So  tho 
judges,  after  consulting  together,  drew  a  proof  of  Bar 
bara's  power  from  her  perverse  silence.  How  was  it  to 
be  expected  that  the  witness  could  bear  unprejudicial  evi 
dence  while  the  glance  of  the  prisoner  was  upon  her  ? 
23 


868  CONCLUDING     T  £  b  T  I  M  O  N  Y. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

CONCLUDING   TESTIMONY. 

THE  prosecuting  attorney  had  been  vigilant  in  the 
management  of  his  case.  No  one  event  of  Barbara 
Stafford's  life,  since  she  landed  in  Boston,  had  escaped 
him.  Jason  Brown  and  his  wife  took  the  witness  stand 
next.  The  honest  sailor  was  prejudiced  against  the 
prisoner.  He  solemnly  believed  that  she  had  turned  his 
own  peaceful  home  into  a  den  of  iniquity,  and  made  it  the 
centre  of  a  fearful  witch-gathering.  His  frank,  honest 
face,  and  profound  self-couviction,  aided  his  words  power 
fully. 

Yes,  he  knew  the  woman.  She  came  over  from  Eng 
land  in  the  same  vessel  with  him.  During  the  voyage  he 
had  seen  her  cheerful,  and  easily  pleased.  She  always 
had  a  sweet  look  and  kind  word  for  every  one  on  the  ship, 
till  all  bands  on  board,  even  to  the  cabin  boy,  almost 
worshipped  her.  Still  no  one  ever  knew  from  whence  she 
came,  or  what  business  she  had  in  the  new  country.  She 
had  plenty  of  gold,  and  gave  it  liberally  to  all  who  served 
her. 

Brown  had  never  seen  any  thing  very  remarkable  in  her 
conduct  while  on  ship  board ;  sometimes  he  heard  her 
singing  in  the  cabin,  and  often,  as  the  sun  went  down,  he 
had  seen  her  gazing  westward  with  a  bright,  hopeful 
countenance,  as  if  she  expected  some  great  happiness  in 
that  direction. 

n  ;he  storm  rose  and  drove  them  furiously  toward 


CONCLUDING     TESTIMONY.  369 

the  land,  Barbara  Stafford  came  on  deck  with  her  cloak  on, 
and  seemed  to  glory  in  braving  the  tempest,  which  swept 
her  so  furiously  coastward.  She  was  fearless  of  danger, 
and  exulted  in  every  fierce  plunge  of  the  vessel,  which 
made  even  tried  sailors  turn  pale. 

At  last  they  came  in  sight  of  the  harbor,  but  were  com 
pelled  to  cast  anchor,  the  heave  and  swell  of  the  ocean 
were  so  tumultuous.  As  the  vessel  lay  there,  tugging 
like  a  chained  beast  at  its  hausers,  with  a  heavy  fog 
drifting  over  it,  and  red  clouds  heaped  up  in  the  west,  this 
woman  had  pleaded  with  him  to  let  down  a  boat  and  put 
her  on  shore — anywhere,  so  that  her  feet  touched  the  soil 
of  America.  She  offered  a  handful  of  golden  guineas  to 
several  of  the  men,  but  they  all  refused,  holding  the 
attempt  to  be  certain  death.  How  he  was  persuaded  to 
let  down  the  boat,  unless  impelled  by  the  witchery  in  her 
look  and  voice,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  say.  Cer 
tainly  he  did  it,  and  not  for  the  gold,  for  he  only  took  one 
piece.  The  boat  was  dashed  to  pieces,  and  but  for  that 
God-fearing  man,  Samuel  Parris,  and  young  Lovel,  every 
living  soul  in  it  would  have  been  lost. 

In  answer  to  the  question  if  he  knew  any  thing  more 
of  the  prisoner's  practices  in  witchcraft,  Jason  Brown 
replied  : 

Some  weeks  after  the  woman  left  his  house  she  re 
turned  to  it  one  evening  alone,  just  after  dark.  Before 
she  entered,  himself,  his  wife,  and  the  hired  man  had 
been  terrified  by  a  crowd  of  dark  faces  piled,  as  it  seemed, 
against  the  window^  and  all  peering  in  with  eyes  wild 
and  bright  as  fiery  stars.  They  had  seen  feathers  wave, 
and  red  garments  gleam  through  the  glass,  but  tumultu- 
ously  and  half  lost  in  shadows.  Before  any  one  could 


870  CONCLUDING    TESTIMONY. 

move  to  search  this  strange  appearance  more  thoroughly, 
the  faces  disappeared,  and  did  not  come  back. 

Directly  after  this,  one  of  the  carpenters  at  work  on  the 
ship  came  in,  and  being  questioned  declared  that  he  had 
seen  nothing  unusual  about  the  house,  though  his  path  led 
him  almost  around  it.  While  he  was  saying  this  Bar 
bara  Stafford  came  in,  with  her  hood  thrown  back,  her 
garments  disturbed  and  covered  with  dust.  She  besought 
them  almost  with  tears  to  hasten  the  repairs  going  on  in 
the  nearly  wrecked  vessel,  and  left  a  purse  of  gold  in  his 
hands  to  be  used  to  speed  the  work.  Then  the  woman 
went  away  in  haste,  as  she  had  entered  the  house. 

"  Did  they  follow  her  to  see  where  she  went  ?" 

"  Not  exactly  ;  but  they  gathered  around  the  window 
and  watched  her  as  she  walked  towards  the  woods.  A8 
they  stood  there,  she  rode  forth  out  of  the  shadows  on  a 
white  horse,  and  with  her  came  two  dark  figures ;  no 
doubt  the  fiends  who  attended  her.  Scarcely  were  they 
swallowed  up  by  the  darkness,  when  all  the  woods 
swarmed  visibly  with  dusky  figures.  He  saw  them 
moving  under  the  trees  and  sweep  in  a  slender  column 
through  a  small  opening  into  the  thick  of  the  forest 
again,  where  the  weird  pageant  disappeared,  following 
the  prisoner." 

In  the  morning  after  these  strange  doings,  Brown  had 
gone  to  his  barn,  where  some  boxes  had  been  stored  for  a 
passenger  who  came  over  in  the  ship,  and  which  he  was 
to  call  for.  These  boxes  were  remarkably  heavy.  Of 
course  he  did  not  know  any  thing  of  their  contents ;  but 
he  was  a  powerful  man  and  could  not  lift  one  of  them  an 
inch  from  the  floor.  But  he  found  the  corner  where  they 
stood  empty.  Every  box  was  gone,  and  nothing  but  some 
trusses  of  loose  hay  remained.  Astonished  at  this,  he 


CONCLUDING     TESTIMONY.  371 

had  searched  the  ground  for  wagon  tracks,  or  some  other 
sign  of  the  way  in  which  the  boxes  had  been  carried  off; 
but  nothing  was  there  ;  not  a  wheel  track  or  hoof  print. 
Still  the  earth  was  trampled  down,  but  not  with  human 
beings,  barefooted  or  with  honestly  made  shoes  on  their  feet. 

This  was  all  Jason  Brown  had  to  say,  except  that  he 
had  felt  the  strange  influence,  described  by  so  many,  when 
the  woman  addressed  him.  In  spite  of  himself  he  was 
always  constrained  to  lift  his  hat  when  she  went  by. 
Indeed,  so  far  had  this  feeling  prevailed,  that  he  had  more 
than  once  put  the  quid  of  tobacco  back  into  his  pocket 
when  it  was  almost  to  his  mouth,  because  she  happened 
to  be  looking  that  way  ;  and  would  hide  bis  cup  of  grog 
behind  him  if  she  chanced  to  be  present  when  the  rations 
of  gin  or  rum  were  dealt  out  to  the  men.  Jason  Brown 
could  not  account  for  these  things.  He  had  uever  felt 
afraid  or  awkward  in  the  presence  of  womankind  before. 
If  it  was  witchcraft — well,  he  couldn't  say  that  the  sin 
was  altogether  an  unpleasant  one.  He  knew  nothing 
more ;  but  his  old  woman  had  been  with  the  prisoner  a 
good  deal,  and  might  have  something  to  tell. 

As  Jason  Brown  stepped  heavily  down  into  the  crowd, 
his  wife  appeared  on  the  stand,  prim,  cold,  and  self-pos 
sessed,  like  a  statue  of  wood.  She  looked  toward  the 
prisoner  with  a  cold,  quiet  glance,  and  then  gave  herself 
up  to  be  questioned.  Her  story  did  not  vary  from  that 
of  the  other  witnesses,  save  that  she  threw  no  feeling  into 
it,  but  spoke  the  simple  truth  without  even  an  implied 
comment.  Yes,  she  had  loved  the  lady,  loved  her  so  well 
from  the  very  first,  that  it  seemed  almost  like  a  sin.  But 
it  appeared  to  her  that  this  affection  sprang  out  of  the 
dreariness  left  at  her  hearth  after  the  two  children  died. 
It  was  very  pleasant  to  sit  at  her  spinning-wheel  and  see 


CONCLUDING    TESTIMONY. 

the  sweet,  mournful  look  on  that  face.  Goody  Brown 
could  not  help  but  think  that  the  poor  lady  had  lost  some 
thing  that  she  loved,  and  felt  lonesome  over  it,  for  some 
times  she  would  sit  minutes  together  looking  out  on  the 
sea  till  tears  filled  her  eyes  and  blinded  them.  It  was 
these  tears  that  went  to  her  heart.  Others  might  have 
been  bewitched  by  her  smiles  and  her  sweet  voice,  but 
she  always  thought  of  her  children  when  the  lady  fell  to 
crying,  and  longed  to  kneel  down  at  her  feet,  sorrowful 
like  herself,  and  pray  God  to  help  them  both. 

Had  the  witness  seen  nothing  else  that  was  strange  in 
the  prisoner  ? 

Yes ;  one  thing  did  happen  which  she  bad  never  men 
tioned  to  any  human  being  except  her  husband.  One 
day  when  Barbara  Stafford-was  taking  some  things  out 
of  a  trunk,  Goody  Brown  went  into  her  room  suddenly, 
when  the  sunshine  was  streaming  in  at  the  window,  and 
saw  what  seemed  to  her  a  wreath  of  living  fire  on  the 
bed  ;  a  pair  of  handcuffs  blazed  in  the  same  light,  and  a 
chain,  half  gold,  half  flame,  rippled  across  the  pillow. 
The  prisoner  started  when  she  opened  the  door,  and 
made  an  attempt  to  fling  a  purple  silk  mantle,  that  she 
had  just  taken  from  the  trunk,  over  these  things,  but 
seeing  that  it  was  too  late  she  dropped. the  garment  and, 
pale  with  fright,  asked  what  brought  the  housewife  there, 
in  a  voice  that  was  almost  cross. 

The  witness  looked  in  wonder  at  these  strange  objects, 
and  asked  if  they  would  nofset  the  bed  on  fire  ;  at  which 
the  lady  smiled,  answering :  "  No,  they  were  only  bright 
Btones  playing  with  the  sunshine,  but  cold  and  hard  as 
rocks." 

Then  the  witness  touched  the  chain  and  saw  that  the 
prisoner  spoke  truth.  It  seemed  like  handling  drops  of 


CONCLUDING    TESTIMONY.  373 

frozen  water.  She  asked  what  they  were  good  for,  and 
what  use  they  could  be  put  to.  At  which  the  lady  sat 
the  wreath  upon  her  head,  hung  the  chain  around  her  neck, 
and  fastened  the  handcuffs  to  her  wrist  with  a  snap  that 
sounded  like  the  click  of  a  lock.  She  stood  close  by  the 
window,  and  it  appeared  as  if  a  rainbow  had  been  broken 
over  her. 

Then  the  witness  asked  what  the  stones  were  called. 
The  prisoner  did  not  answer,  but  took  them  from  her  head 
and  arms  with  a  deep  sigh,  saying  that  they  were  of 
little  use  to  her,  and  only  made  her  heart  ache.  Then 
she  put  them  up  in  a  leather  box  lined  with  red  velvet, 
and  pressed  them  down  into  her  trunk. 

The  witness  had  heard  that  witches  sometimes  crowned 
themselves  with  fire  ;  and  this  thing  troubled  her  even 
then,  for  the  lady  had  not  acted  like  herself,  but  turned 
red  and  white  in  the  same  breath,  and  spoke  sharply,  as 
she  had  never  done  before.  The  witness  had  not  wished 
to  stay  in  the  room  after  that.  When  Barbara  Stafford 
came  out  she  looked  very  anxious,  and  asked  Goody 
Brown  not  to  mention  any  thing  about  the  stones  she  had 
seen,  or  the  rich  garments  packed  in  her  trunk,  as  the 
farmhouse  stood  in  a  lonely  place,  and  the  knowledge  that 
such  things  could  be  found  there  might  tempt  robbers, 
she  said. 

This  request,  and  the  evident  anxiety  of  the  prisoner, 
had  given  the  witness  some  troubled  thoughts,  but  she 
had  not  really  considered  the  fiery  stones  as  witch  orna 
ments  till  after  Barbara  Stafford's  visit  that  night,  when 
the  shadows  swarmed  so  thickly  along  her  path. 

Here  the  judge  asked  if  the  prisoner's  trunk  had  been 
searched,  and  was  answered  that  a  thorough  examination 
had  been  made,  but  no  jewels  found. 


374  CONCLUDING     TESTIMONY. 

Then  Goody  Brown  remembered  another  event  One 
day  she  had  gone  down  to  the  wharf  to  carry  her 
husband's  dinner  to  him  on  shipboard,  and  was  returning 
home,  when  a  young  man,  who  looked  like  a  foreigner, 
came  from  the  direction  of  her  dwelling,  carrying  a  small 
travelling-bag  in  his  hand.  He  passed  her,  walking  fast, 
and  lifting  his  hat  as  if  she  had  been  a  lady. 

But  what  was  there  in  this  to  implicate  the  prisoner  ? 

Nothing,  only  that  same  man  had  come  to  the  house  to 
ask  for  a  drink  of  milk  on  the  very  day  that  Barbara  was 
rescued  from  the  waves,  and  the  housewife  had  caught  a 
glimpse  of  him  coming  out  of  her  room  as  she  lay  sleep 
ing  there.  Besides,  the  boxes  which  had  disappeared  so 
strangely  were  his  property.  More  than  this.  When 
Goody  went  back  to  her  house  she  found  the  door  open, 
and  the  trunk  in  which  Barbara  Stafford  had  packed  the 
witch  crown  had  been  moved  from  its  place.  The  lock 
was  secure.  But  she  knew  that  it  had  been  opened,  by  a 
girdle  of  blue  ribbon  which  hung  over  the  edge,  and  was 
half  shut  in. 

Was  this  all  the  witness  had  to  say  ? 

Yes ;  she  knew  nothing  more,  except  that  in  every 
thing  the  lady  had  been  kind  and  gentle  in  her  house — 
more  like  an  angel  of  light  than  a  witch.  She  had  again 
and  again  heard  her  praying  in  the  night.  Besides,  she 
had  given  her  money  to  buy  a  marble  grave-stone  for  the 
two  children  who  had  left  her  house  so  lonesome. 

At  last  old  Tituba  took  the'etand.  Her  withered  face 
seemed  small,  and  more  shrivelled  up  than  ever  ;  but  her 
eyes,  usually  sharp  and  piercing  as  those  of  a  rattlesnake, 
were  now  hard  as  steel.  Instead  of  glancing  round  the 
court  with  her  usual  vigilance,  she  kept  her  gaze  Gxed  on 
the  judge,  as  if  all  her  duty  lay  with  him.  The  prosecutor 


CONCLUDING     TESTIMONY.  375 

expected  much  from  this  witness.  She  had  been  with 
Abigail  Williams  and  Elizabeth  Parris  from  their  infancy, 
and  must  know  better  than  any  other  person  the  effect 
which  Barbara  Stafford  had  produced  upon  them.  She 
had  helped  to  decoct  the  herbs  and  roots  which  Barbara 
loved  to  gather,  and  had  herself  drank  of  this  devil's 
broth,  as  those  pleasant,  wholesome  drinks  were  now 
denominated.  It  was  these  drinks,  no  doubt,  that  had 
shrunk  up  her  own  features,  and  made  her  eyes  so  blood 
shot. 

Tituba's  first  words  flung  the  court  into  consternation. 
When  called  upon  to  look  at  the  prisoner,  she  turned  her 
head  resolutely  another  way,  calling  out, 

"  No,  no  !  What  has  old  Tituba  to  do  with  the  stranger  ? 
It  was  I,  old  Tituba,  who  made  the  drinks,  and  it  was  I 
who  went  out  in  the  night  for  herbs.  Poor  old  Tituba 
meant  right ;  but  if  witches  walked  by  her  side,  unseen, 
and  put  strange  plants  into  her  apron,  how  was  she  to 
know  ?  She  had  heard  the  mandrakes  cry  out  when  she 
tore  up  their  roots  ;  and  once  had  plucked  a  plant  from  the 
earth  out  of  which  the  blood  dropped  red  when  her  knife 
cut  it,  and  whispers  ran  through  the  forest  as  she  carried 
it  away.  These  roots  she  had  been  tempted  to  put  into 
the  household  beer  just  before  Elizabeth  was  taken  ill." 

"  Had  Barbara  Stafford  tempted  her  ?"  This  was  a 
question  put  by  the  judge.  "  Had  she  been  near  when 
the  mandrake  shrieked  ?" 

"  No  ;  old  Tituba  was  alone,  it  was  her  work  altogether. 
She  was  the  witch — she  had  yielded  herself  to  the  evil 
one  in  her  old  age — it  was  her  lips  which  had  given  forth 
the  poison  that  ran  through  the  whole  household.  Be 
guiled  by  unseen  devils,  she  had  talked  strange  and  wicked 
things  to  Abigail  Williams,  and  turned  her  to  stone 


376  CONCLUDING     TESTIMONY. 

The  witch  poison  had  spread  from  cousin  to  cousin — from 
father  to  child — from  parlor  to  kitchen,  till  the  minister's 
household  was  utterly  accursed,  and  she,  old  Tituba,  the 
Indian  woman — she,  the  witch  of  witches,  had  done 
it  all." 

When  Tituba  was  dismissed  from  the  stand,  she  cast 
one  imploring  glance  toward  the  dusky  young  stranger, 
who  still  kept  his  place  near  the  judges.  When  she  saw 
by  his  look  that  he  seemed  satisfied  with  what  she  had 
done,  the  fire  came  back  to  her  eyes,  and  passing  quickly 
down  the  aisle  where  he  stood,  she  whispered  : 

"  Has  Tituba  done  well  ?" 

The  young  man  did  not  answer  her,  but  turned  another 
way,  apparently  unconscious  of  her  whisper. 

While  the  judges  were  consulting  together,  Tituba 
glided  through  the  crowd  ;  an  Indian^  who  stood  near  the 
door,  withdrew  the  blanket  from  his  shoulders  and  cast  it 
over  her  head.  Thus  disguised  after  the  fashion  of  her 
tribe,  she  found  her  way  into  the  forest,  thinking,  poor 
old  soul,  that  in  confessing  herself  a  witch,  and  taking  the 
household  curse  on  her  own  head,  she  had  saved  the 
beautiful,  strange  lady  from  death. 

Alas,  it  was  all  in  vain  !  The  judges  looked  upon  old 
Tituba  as  an  accomplice,  not  as  a  principal.  Thus,  in 
their  minds,  Barbara's  guilt  was  confirmed. 


THE     STRANGE     ADVOCATE.  377 


CHAPTER  XLYI 

THE    STRANGE    ADVOCATE. 

THE  evidence  for  the  prosecution  was  here  exhausted, 
and  Barbara  had  nothing  to  offer  in  her  defence.  A 
judge,  more  compassionate  than  his  brethren,  asked  the 
prisoner  if  she  had  no  counsel. 

Barbara  looked  up  at  this  question,  smiled  faintly,  and 
shook  her  head. 

"  Wherefore  should  I  seek  counsel  ?"  she  said.  "  I  have 
no  friends,  and  those  who  bear  witness  of  my  innocence 
injure  me  most.  What  could  eloquence  or  wisdom  do  in 
behalf  of  a  creature  so  forsaken  ?" 

"  No,  not  forsaken — do  not  say  that.  One  friend  is 
ready  to  stand  by  you,"  whispered  a  voice  in  her  ear,  and 
looking  suddenly  around  she  saw  Norman  Lovel,  with  all 
the  fire  of  a  generous  nature  in  his  face,  ready  to  die  at 
her  feet,  or  in  her  defence,  despite  his  patron — despite  all 
the  judges  on  earth. 

A  beautiful  joy  broke  over  Barbara  Stafford's  face  ;  the 
loneliness  of  desolation  was  no  longer  around  her.  But 
other  eyes  were  bent  on  Norman  Lovel,  and  when  Bar 
bara  smiled,  the  frown  upon  that  dark  forehead  gloomed 
like  midnight. 

"  The  prisoner  refuses  counsel,"  said  the  judge.  "  Let 
the  trial  proceed." 

"  Not  so,"  cried  a  clear  voice,  that  rang  over  the  crowd 
with  singular  distinctness.  "  The  lady  has  counsel.  If 


378     THE  STRANGK  ADVOCATE. 

an  admitted  advocate  in  the  English  courts,  as  these  cie- 
dentials  testify,  stand  here  in  her  defence." 

Barbara  Stafford  started  at  the  sound  of  that  voice.  It 
was  the  son  of  King  Philip,  who  had  flung  himself  in  the 
midst  of  his  most  deadly  enemies  to  rescue  her  from 
death.  Norman  Lovel  started  forward  and  took  his  place 
by  the  young  man,  whom  he  saw  for  the  first  time,  and 
toward  whom  his  heart  leaped  in  quick  sympathy. 

The  judges  consulted  together.  The  case  was  a  singular 
one,  and  they  were  not  altogether  certain  about  admitting 
a  stranger  into  the  provincial  courts  without  due  question. 
But  the  credentials  which  the  young  man  submitted  were 
genuine,  and  after  a  little  he  was  escorted  with  consider 
able  show  of  dignity  to  a  place  before  the  judges.  Though 
armed  with  the  impulses  of  a  giant,  and  a  kind  of  eloquence 
that  might  have  kindled  enthusiasm  in  any  heart  not 
locked  close  by  superstition,  which  is  the  romance  of 
bigotry,  he  might  as  well  have  argued  with  the  rocks  on 
the  hills,  as  attempted  that  woman's  defence  before  a 
bigoted  jury,  and  those  iron-hearted  judges.  What  argu 
ment  could  he  use  which  would  not  wound  the  self-love 
of  those  solemn  men  ?  how  could  he  arouse  sympathies 
which  they  repudiated  as  a  sin,  or  appeal  to  the  judgment 
which  was  bound  down  by  prejudices,  reverenced  as 
solemn  allegations  ? 

At  first  his  voice  was  husky  and  faint :  the  very  might 
of  his  sympathy  for  the  woman  who  sat  gazing  on  him  so 
piteously  paralyzed  his  powers  pbut  indignation  at  last 
broke  the  trammels  from  his  speech,  and  with  a  loud, 
clear  utterance,  he  entered  upon  her  defence. 

Had  not  both  judges  and  jury  been  blind  with  bigotry 
and  solemn  self-conceit,  his  first  argument  must  have 
enforced  the  prisoner's  acquittal.  With  the  might  of  a 


T  H  £     S  T  li  A  N  G  K     ADVOCATE. 

powerful  intellect  he  unravelled  the  tissue  of  evidence,  and 
exhibited  the  case  as  it  would  appear  this  day.  "  The 
evil,"  he  said,  "  lay  not  in  the  gentle  lady  arraigned 
before  them,  but  in  the  disturbed  minds  of  the  witnesses  : 
Samuel  Parris  was  a  man  of  books,  of  meditation,  and 
thought — a  poet,  diseased  by  the  unwritten  music  in  his 
soul,  which  had  no  power  to  express  itself  in  long  sermons, 
and  to  which  all  other  avenues  to  sympathy  were  closed 
up.  It  was  this  that  had  drawn  him  into  the  storm,  and 
had  sent  him  to  battling  the  waves  face  to  face  with  death 
on  the  coast.  It  was  this  that  made  love  for  his  child 
idolatry,  from  which  he  was  compelled  by  a  sensitive  con 
science  to  fast  and  pray,  as  from  a  grievous  sin. 

"  Samuel  Parris,  the  principal  witness,  was  neither  in 
sincere  nor  insane,  but  a  man  born  in  advance  of  the  age, 
to  whom  endowments,  that  would  have  been  greatness  if 
understood  even  by  himself,  were  turned  into  a  torment 
and  a  curse.  This  quick  imagination,  this  sensitive  love, 
had  seized  upon  the  old  man's  reason,  and  thus  rendered 
him  a  most  dread  witness — a  thousand  times  more  dan 
gerous  than  falsehood  or  malice  could  have  been,  because 
of  his  honesty."  The  other  witnesses  he  touched  on 
lightly  and  with  gentleness,  but  when  he  left  them  and 
threw  his  fiery  soul  into  a  protest  and  appeal  for  the 
prisoner,  the  passion  of  his  eloquence  was  enough  to  stir 
even  that  crowd  of  prejudging  accusers. 

Why  had  Barbara  Stafford  done  these  strange  things  ? 
How,  except  from  the  Prince  of  Darkness,  had  she  attained 
tho  power  of  winning  .every  soul  that  came  in  contact  with 
hers  into  subjection  ?  Why  was  she  possessed  of  a  beauty 
which  died  with  the  first  youth  of  most  women — a  fresh, 
proud  beauty,  to  which  years  only  gave  grandeur,  except 
that  she  had  made  a  compact  with  the  evil  one,  and  given 


380      THE  STKANGE  A.DVOCATE. 

I 

her  soul  in  exchange  for  the  marvellous  beauty  in  which 
her  diabolical  power  principally  lay  ?  How  could  he,  or 
any  man,  answer  charges  like  these — charges  based  on 
imagination  only,  yet  for  which  a  fellow-creature  was  in 
jeopardy  of  her  life  ? 

How  should  he  answer  ?  Let  the  judge  and  the  jury 
look  upon  the  woman  where  she  sat,  with  halberts  bristling 
around  her,  and  a  tribunal  of  death  that  moment  waiting 
to  hurl  her  into  eternity  ;  for,  guard  the  dignity  of  that 
court  as  they  might,  such  was  its  object.  See  how  gently 
she  watches  these  proceedings — see  how  brave  she  is. 
Though  a  woman  upon  the  brink  of  eternity,  rich  in 
beauty,  and  strong  with  life,  she  is  not  afraid  to  die. 
Was  that  the  attitude  of  a  fiend  ?  Was  that  troubled 
smile,  so  full  of  forgiveness  and  pity,  the  smile  of  a  devil 
or  an  angel  ?  Let  the  jury  look  upon  that  face,  and 
answer  to  the  most  high  God  if  they  refused  to  profit  by 
the  evidence  beaming  therein  ! 

Here  the  men  of  the  jury  looked  at  Barbara  Stafford 
with  a  single  accord,  as  if  they  had  no  power  to  resist  the 
direction  of  the  young  advocate's  eye,  and  it  seemed  im 
possible  to  turn  from  her  gaze,  so  mournful  was  the  gloom 
of  those  large  eyes,  so  calm  was  the  attitude  with  which 
she  met  their  scrutiny. 

But  here  one  of  the  judges  arose,  and  warned  the  jury, 
that  a  glance  like  that  was  the  most  dangerous  fascination 
that  Satan  gave  to  his  witch  children,  and  besought  them 
to  look  straight  toward  the  bench,  thus  saving  their  souls 
from  jeopardy. 

Then  the  wonderful  eloquence  of  the  young  man  «vas 
aroused,  his  magnificent  eyes  shot  fire,  his  lip  curved,  and 
his  thin  nostrils  dilated;  all  the  strength  and  fervor  of  his 
being  was  flung  into  the  scathing  denunciation  which  he 


THE  STRANGE  ADVOCATE.     381 

hurled  against  the  court,  and  against  the  people  whom 
this  tribunal  represented.  It  was  the  wild  eloquence  of 
despair,  for  he  knew  when  the  jury  turned  to  look  upon 
Winthrop,  the  chief  judge,  whose  rebuke  had  crushed  the 
rising  pity  which  might  have  saved  Barbara  Stafford,  that 
her  doom  was  sealed.  Thus,  with  the  terrible  conviction 
that  he  was  avenging  the  fate  of  a  doomed  woman  rather 
than  pleading  with  a  hope,  he  poured  out  a  wild  outburst 
of  passionate  eloquence — now  appeal — now  denunciation 
— now  a  wailing  lament,  that  made  the  jury  tremble,  and 
the  judges  turn  white  in  the  face,  as  if  an  avenging  angel 
bad  descended  to  protect  the  woman  they  were  about  to 
adjudge  to  death. 

This  eloquence,  native  to  the  Indian,  overbore  the 
restraint  of  education,  and  as  the  wild  torrent  of  feeling 
rushed  over  the  multitude,  it  fired  the  superstition,  brood 
ing  there,  into  a  terrible  conviction.  A  word  only  was 
wanting,  like  a  lighted  match,  to  ignite  these  lurid  appre 
hensions.  It  came  from  a  far-off  corner  of  the  meeting 
house,  where  one  of  the  witnesses  stood  aghast  with 
wonder,  and  trembling  in  all  his  massive  limbs. 

"  It  is  the  man  who  came  with  us  in  the  hold  of  the 
vessel.  He  followed  her  after  the  storm.  He  it  was  who 
left  the  heavy  boxes  in  my  keeping." 

A  shrewd  bystander  caught  these  words  as  they  fell 
from  the  white  lips  of  Jason  Brown,  and  he  cried  out  in  a 
voice  that  rang  through  the  court  like  a  trumpet, 

"Behold  the  confederate  of  her  sorcery  !  The  beauti 
ful  witch  has  brought  Lucifer  himself  to  plead  her  cause  : 
mark  the  fire  in  his  eyes,  the  breath  from  his  nostrils; 
see  the  bronze  on  his  forehead,  the  proud  curve  on  his 
mouth  1" 

At  these   words   there   rose   a   tumult   in  the  house. 


S82  THE     STRANGE     ADVOCATE 

Women  shrieked,  and  pressed  forward  to  the  doors ;  men 
broke  into  wild  murmurs,  or  whispered  together  in  low 
voices ;  while  the  judges  stood  up,  pale  as  a  grou^  of 
statues  ;  and  the  jury  huddled  together,  looking  into  each 
other's  faces  aghast. 

In  the  midst  of  this  turmoil,  Barbara  Stafford  felt  a 
breath  on  her  cheek,  and  looking  suddenly  up,  met  the 
glance  of  those  eyes,  which,  a  moment  before,  had  fright 
ened  the  people  with  their  burning  passion,  now  full  of 
determined  purpose. 

He  whispered  something,  but  in  the  tumultuous  noise 
Barbara  lost  its  meaning.  The  next  instant  the  rush  of 
the  crowd  carried  the  noble  youth  from  her  sight,  and 
when  the  court,  recovering  from  its  panic,  looked  around 
for  this  emissary  of  the  dark  one,  who  had  denounced  its 
proceedings  face  to  face  with  the  august  judges,  the  strange 
advocate  was  gone. 

Then,  while  the  crowd  was  hushed  with  unconquerable 
awe,  and  the  very  heavens  bent  over  it  black  with  a 
mustering  storm,  the  verdict  of  the  jury  ran  in  a  low 
whisper  from  lip  to  lip,  till  it  reached  the  savages  brood 
ing  in  the  forest,  and  was  mingled  with  the  deep,  deep 
curses  of  the  white  man — 

"Guilty!  guilty!" 

Then  the  storm  burst  over  them,  shaking  the  window- 
panes,  like  angry  fiends,  uphurling  great  trees  in  the 
woods,  and  plowing  up  the  virgin  soil ;  and  in  the  midst 
of  its  fury  sentence  was  pronounced. 

On  the  second  day  from  that  Barbara  Stafford  was 
doomed  to  suffer  death  by  drowning  for  the  crime  of 
witchcraft 


THE     WIFE'S     APPEAL.  883 


THE     WIFE'S     APPEAL. 

GOVERNOR  PHIPPS  was  a  changed  man  during  the  pro 
gress  of  Barbara  Stafford's  trial.  His  character,  usually 
so  sternly  calm,  seemed  all  broken  up.  He  was  restless 
— almost  irritable — and  woiild  start  as  if  wounded  if  any 
one  mentioned  her  name,  or  discussed  her  cause  in  his 
presence. 

After  giving  his  evidence  he  had  not  once  entered  the 
court,  but  shut  himself  up  on  a  plea  of  pressing  papers  to 
write,  and  remained  almost  entirely  alone.  He  neither 
wrote  nor  read,  but  sat  with  both  elbows  on  the  library 
table,  wondering  moodily  if  he  were  indeed  bewitched  and 
given  up  to  the  evil  one. 

One  great  cause  of  his  depression  arose  from  the  awful 
responsibility  which  must  fall  upon  him  if  this  strange 
lady  should  be  found  guilty.  With  him,  as  chief  magis 
trate  of  the  colony,  rested  the  pardoning  power.  If  she 
was  condemned  her  life  would  lie  in  his  hands — her  death 
perhaps  rest  upon  his  soul  should  he  refuse  the  mercy  that 
might  be  demanded  of  him.  He  felt  that  she  would  be 
condemned,  and  the  coming  responsibility  lay  heavy  on 
him. 

In  this  frame  of  mind  the  afternoon  of  the  closing  trial 
found  him.  The  storm  which  had  been  slowly  gathering 
all  day  broke  fiercely  over  his  dwelling ;  sleet  and  hail 
rattled  like  a  storm  of  shot  against  the  window-panes  ;  the 
wind  howled  and  raved  among  the  old  trees  that  sheltered 
24 


984:  THE   WIFE'S   APPEAL. 

the  gables,  beating  their  branches  heavily  against  the  "Dof, 
and  forcing  weird  sounds,  almost  of  human  anguish,  from 
every  tree  and  bough. 

Sir  William  shuddered  as  these  dismal  sounds  swelled 
around  him.  It  seemed  indeed  as  if  some  demon  were 
turning  the  elements  into  great  bursts  of  wrath.  Had  the 
trial  ended  ?  Was  the  beautiful  witch  condemned  ;  and 
were  kindred  demons  tearing  through  the  elements,  ex 
hausting  their  fiendish  powers  there  which  had  been  insuf 
ficient  to  save  her  ? 

This  thought  certainly  passed  through  his  disturbed 
mind,  but  took  no  lasting  hold  there.  But  for  the  strange 
influence  this  woman  had  exercised  over  his  own  feelings, 
his  reason,  always  clear  and  logical,  would  have  rejected 
such  wild  fantasies.  But  something  weird,  and  yet  en 
thralling  in  his  own  soul,  rendered  the  strong  man  for 
once  clearly  superstitious. 

The  library  door  was  hastily  flung  open,  and  Norman 
Lovel  came  in,  palp  as  death,  though  he  had  been  buffet- 
Ing  the  winds,  and  with  terrible  excitement  in  his  eyes. 
He  was  shivering,  and  cold  sleet  and  ridges  of  fine  snow 
hung  on  his  garments  and  powdered  his  hair. 

Sir  William  started  to  his  feet,  cast  one  glance  on  that 
white  young  face,  and  sat  down  suddenly,  stifling  a  groan. 

The  young  man  flung  himself  into  a  chair,  threw  hia 
arms  out  on  the  table,  and  buried  his  face  upon  them. 

"  Speak  to  me,"  said  Sir  William,  hoarsely.  "  Is  the 
trial  ended  ?" 

The  young  man  lifted  bis  head ;  every  feature  of  his 
face  was  quivering.  His  eyes,  heavy  with  anguish, 
turned  upon  the  governor. 

"  Day  after  to-morrow  they  will  murder  her." 

"  Day  after  to-morrow  !     Great  Heavens  !  so  soon  ?" 


THE     WIFE'S     APPEAL.  885 

"You  will  not  permit  it.  Thank  God  her  life  rests 
with  you  !"  cried  Norman,  passionately.  "  You  have  the 
power.  Use  it,  and  save  the  highest  and  best  creature 
that  the  sun  ever  shone  upon." 

The  governor  slowly  regained  his  manhood  under  this 
appeal.  Remembering  that  he  was  chief  magistrate  of 
the  province,  he  put  aside  the  sensitive  tenderness  that 
had  almost  swayed  him  for  a  time,  and  asked  himself 
whence  that  strange  feeling  had  come  ?  Could  this 
woman's  influence  reach  him  even  from  her  dungeon  ? 
Had  the  evil  spirit  within  her  seized  upon  Norman  Lovel, 
the  being  held  closest  to  his  heart,  that  she  might  thus 
possess  him,  and  force  mercy  from  his  hands  ? 

"Norman,"  he  said,  gravely,  "by  what  power  are  you 
BO  wrought  upon  ?  What  is  this  woman  to  you  ?" 

"  What  is  she  to  me  ?  My  soul !  my  life  ! — every  thing 
that  an  angel  of  light  can  be  to  a  human  being.  If  she 
dies,  Sir  William,  I  will  perish  with  her." 

This  wild  outburst  hardened  the  governor,  who  abso 
lutely  believed  the  young  man  possessed. 

"  Leave  me,  boy  1"  he  said,  not  unkindly ;  "  in  this 
matter  I  must  take  council  with  my  God  alone.  Would 
that  this  hard  duty  had  been  spared  me  !  I  am  ad 
monished  by  the  weakness  here,  that  the  scales  of  justice 
tremble  in  my  hands.  This  must  not  be.  Men  who 
govern  must  be  firm,  or  mercy  is  but  cowardice." 

"  Oh,  if  you  could  but  see  her  as  I  have  1  feel  for  her 
as  I  feel !"  cried  the  young  man. 

"  Were  I  Norman  Lovel,  and  you  governor  of  this 
province,?',  might  be  so,"  answered  Sir  William.  "But 
plead  with  me  no  more  ;  this  heart  is  heavy  enough  with 
out  that.  If  it  must  withhold  the  mercy  you  ask,  the 
pain  here  will  far  outweigh  any  thing  that  you  can  feel." 


886  THE    WIFE'S   APPEAL. 

Sir  William  pressed  a  hand  hard  upon  his  heart  as  ho 
spoke,  and  there  was  an  expression  of  such  pain  in  Lis 
voice  and  on  his  features  that  Xorman  forbore  to  press 
him  further,  but  arose,  and  stood  up  ready  to  go. 

"Yes,  leave  me,"  said  Sir  William,  reaching  forth 
his  hand  with  a  sad  smile.  "  I  have  need  to  bo 
alone." 

Norman  kissed  the  hand  which  Sir  William  held  out  to 
him,  and  his  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  Oh,  think  mercifully  of  her,  if  you  would  not  break 
my  heart  1"  he  said. 

Sir  William  drew  back  his  hand,  turning  his  face  away 

"  Leave  me,  boy  !  leave  me  I" 

Was  the  strong  man  weeping,  or  were  all  his  tears 
forced  back  into  that  thrilling  voice  ?  Never  in  his  life 
had  Norman  seen  the  governor  so  moved. 

From  the  library  Norman  went  to  the  little  breakfast- 
parlor,  where  Lady  Phipps  sat  in  dull  silence  with  Eliza 
beth  Parris  and  Abby  Williams. 

The  lady  had  evidently  been  weeping,  for  there  was  a 
flush  under  her  eyes,  and  her  cheerfulness  was  all  gone. 

"I  have  heard  the  sad  news,"  she  said,  moving  upon 
the  sofa,  that  he  might  sit  by  her.  "  Poor  lady  !  I  can 
not  choose  but  pity  her." 

"  I  knew  that  her  fate  would  touch  you  with  com 
passion.  God  help  the  sweet  lady,  for  men  and  women 
both  seem  hardened  against  her." 

Elizabeth  Parris,  who  sat  "in  a  great  easy-chair,  with 
her  tear-stained  cheek  gleaming  white  against  the  crimson 
cushions,  began  to  cry  piteously,  and  sobbed  out, 

"Ah,  me  !  If  she  could  but  go  over  seas  and  live  her 
years  out  there  !  If  they  drown  her  I  shall  never  know 
rest  again." 


THE     WIFE'S    APPEAL.  387 

Norman  went  up  to  the  young  girl,  and  kissed  her 
forehead. 

"  Help  me  to  save  her,  darling.  Plead  with  Lady 
Phipps,  and  with  Sir  William.  He  has  the  power  to 
pardon  her.  As  I  came  from  the  court  an  English  ship 
hove  in  sight,  struggling  against  the  storm.  Let  us  save 
this  unhappy  woman  from  death,  Elizabeth,  and  that  ship 
shall  carry  her  away  from  these  shores  forever." 

"  Would  she  go — would  she  ?"  questioned  the  girl,  look 
ing  up  eagerly. 

"  It  was  her  earnest  wish  to  leave  the  country  before 
this  awful  charge  was  made." 

"  Lady  Phipps — Lady  Phipps  !  May  I  go  to  Sir  Wil 
liam  ?  May  I  kneel  to  him  and  beg  for  her  life  ?" 

"  I  will  go  with  you,  child,"  answered  the  lady. 
"Alas,  it  was  an  evil  day  for  this  poor  woman  when  she 
came  among  us  !" 

"  Let  us  go — let  us  go  at  once  !"  cried  Elizabeth,  rising, 
and  pushing  back  the  hair  from  her  forehead.  "  I  shall 
not  sleep  till  it  is  done.  He  cannot  resist  you.  May 
Abigail  Williams  come  with  us  ?" 

Abigail  sat  by  herself,  looking  wistfully  out  into  the 
storm.  She  turned  her  head  as  Elizabeth  called  to  her, 
but  did  not  attempt  to  rise. 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  I  have  done  nothing  toward  hunting 
this  unhappy  lady  to  her  death." 

"Always  cruel,  always  cold,"  said  Elizabeth,  reproach 
fully.  "Well,  as  I  have  borne  witness  against  her,  so 
will  I  go  alone  and  beg  for  her  life  on  my  knees." 

"  It  is  better  so,"  whispered  Lovel,  as  Lady  Phippa 
hesitated.  "  When  it  comes  to  the  worst,  dear  friend,  we 
must  claim  your  help.  That  will  be  our  last  hope." 

Elizabeth  left  the  room  as  they  were  conversing,  and 


388  THE   WIFE'S   APPEAL. 

Went  into  the  library.  Few  words  were  spoken  after  she 
left.  Abby  Williams  gazed  out  into  the  storm  as  if  she 
had  no  part  in  the  general  trouble.  Lady  Phipps  sat 
with  downcast  eyes,  looking  thoughtfully  on  the  floor. 
Norman  paced  up  and  down  the  room,  turning  anxiously 
at  every  sound,  expecting  to  see  Elizabeth. 

She  came  at  last,  pale  and  heavy-eyed,  moving  wearily 
across  the  hall. 

"  She  has  failed  !"  cried  Norman.  "  Oh,  misery,  she 
has  failed !" 

A  smile,  that  seemed  malicious,  quivered  across  Abi 
gail's  lips,  but  she  did  not  turn  her  head. 

Elizabeth  tottered  across  the  room,  and  fell  into  an 
easy  chair,  exhausted. 

Norman  Lovel  bent  over  her,  hoping  against  hope. 

"It  is  of  no  use,"  she  murmured;  "  he  would  not  let 
me  plead.  Ob,  Xorman  !  must  she  die  ?" 

"Shall  I  go  now  ?"  whispered  Lady  Phipps.  "He 
never  refused  me  any  thing  in  his  life." 

"  Not  yet,  dear  lady,"  answered  Lovel.  "At  present 
leave  him  alone." 

"  To-night,  when  he  conies  to  my  room,"  answered  the 
lady  ;  "  that  perhaps  is  best." 

Lady  Phipps  seemed  glad  of  a  reprieve.  She  went 
back  to  her  sofa,  sighing  heavily. 

"  Feel  how  I  tremble  !"  she  said,  giving  her  bands  to 
Norman.  "  It  is  strange,  but  nothing  ever  shook  my 
nerves  so  till  this  lady  came  across  the  seas.  Oh,  Nor 
man  !  that  was  a  weary  day  for  us." 

"  But  most  of  all  for  her." 

"  True,  true.  Poor  soul,  I  shall  not  sleep  till  she  is 
pardoned.  If  she  is  proven  guilty  of  witchcraft,  it  was 
not  of  a  harmful  sort,  though  we  have  been  made  very 


THE     WIFE'S     APPEAL.  389 

unhappy  by  it.  Elizabeth,  child,  you  are  worn  out ; 
take  my  arm  and  we  will  go  to  our  chambers,  for  I,  too, 
am  weary.  Be  hopeful,  Norman  ;  I  will  surely  speak  to 
the  governor  before  he  goes  to  rest." 

But  the  lady  was  doomed  to  disappointment.  All  that 
night  Sir  William  remained  in  his  library,  with  the  door 
locked.  In  the  morning  the  gentle  wife  claimed  admit 
tance,  and  he  let  her  in,  smiling  sadly  upon  her  as  she 
entered. 

"  My  husband,  this  has  been  a  weary  night.  How 
mournful  and  pale  you  look  !  Surely,  it  is  not  because 
you  have  doomed  that  poor  woman  ?" 

"  She  was  doomed  before  her  case  came  before  me. 
God  knows,  dear  wife,  I  would  gladly  save  her  if  my 
conscience  permitted." 

Lady  Phipps  sat  down  on  a  cushioned  stool  at  her  hus 
band's  feet,  resting  her  hand  lightly  on  his  knee.  Her 
sweet,  gracious  face,  formed  a  striking  contrast  with  the 
haggard  whiteness  of  his. 

"Nay,  sweetheart;  you  will  be  more  merciful  than 
the  judges,"  she  pleaded.  "  They  are  naturally  stern  and 
hard — but  you — " 

"  Must  be  stern  also,  or  betray  my  trust,"  he  answered. 
"  If  I  pardon  this  woman,  who  enlists  your  sympathy  so 
much  more  than  others,  because  of  her  beauty  and  gentle 
breeding,  what  will  be  said  of  me — that  I  withhold  mercy 
from  the  ignorant  crones  and  commonplace  witches  who 
have  perished,  and  give  it  to  a  gentlewoman  because  of 
her  fair  face  ?  If  they  were  held  worthy  of  punishment  for 
setting  a  few  cows  wild,  and  scattering  mischief  among 
their  neighbors  mostly  pertaining  to  the  body  alone,  how 
much  more  severely  should  this  woman  be  dealt  with  who 
fastens  her  witchcraft  on  the  soul !  Have  you  marked  U» 


390  THE   WIFE'S   APPEAL. 

progress  of  her  sorcery  on  tlie  young  man  under  our  roof, 
who  still  clings  to  her  as  if  she  were  part  of  his  own 
being — on  the  maiden  you  love  so,  Elizabeth  Parris, 
whose  very  life  seems  to  have  been  half  shrunk  up  under 
tho  evil  influence  which  she  struggles  against  in  vain  ?" 

"Nay,"  answered  the  lady,  with  an  arch  smile,  "so  far 
as  Elizabeth  is  concerned,  I  think  the  witch  that  most 
troubles  her  is  Jealousy.  Indeed,  indeed  I  do  !  It  is  the 
dark-browed  beauty,  who  says  so  little,  that  seems  most 
deeply  affected.  Yet  she  exonerates  this  woman  entirely. 
As  for  Lovel,  he  is  generous  and  good  to  every  one  :  im 
petuous  in  his  likings,  he  is  always  indignant  if  he  suspects 
oppression  or  injustice.  Had  this  Barbara  Stafford  come 
among  us  without  mystery,  and  been  left  unnoticed,  he 
would  have  cared  little  about  her." 

Sir  William  looked  at  his  wife  thoughtfully  while  she 
was  speaking,  and  a  deeper  shade  came  over  his  face. 
She  was  so  frank,  so  sweetly  generous,  that  he  felt  con 
science-stricken  at  having  given  these  trivial  reasons  for 
withholding  mercy  from  Barbara  Stafford  while  those,  so 
much  deeper  and  more  potent,  lay  buried  in  his  own 
bosom. 

He  took  her  two  hands  between  his,  and  pressed  them 
with  nervous  energy.  "  My  wife,  bear  with  me — neither 
give  way  to  anger  nor  fear — and  I  will  tell  you  why  it  is 
impossible  that  this  woman  can  receive  a  pardon  at  my 
hands.  Even  as  it  has  enthralled  the  souls  of  these  young 
persons,  her  wonderful  powe*.  has  bewitched  your  hus 
band.  Since  that  hour  w!ien  she  stood  near  me  at  the 
altar,  and  the  night  when  she  lay  for  one  moment  against 
my  heart,  I  have  had  no  rent.  Nay,  sweet  wife,  do  not 
turn  pale,  or  draw  these  hands  from  mine.  What  power 
there  is  in  mortal  man  to  resist  the  evil  one  I  have  striven 


THE    WIFE'S   APPEAL.  391 

for,  but  in  vain.  Absent  or  present  this  woman  is  forever 
iu  my  mind,  standing,  as  it  were,  like  the  ghost  of  some 
buried  love  between  us  two." 

Lady  Phipps  gave  a  sharp  cry,  and  wresting  her  hands 
from  his  grasp  buried  her  face  in  them. 

"  Between  us  two  ?  Alas  !  alas  !  I  felt  this  but  would 
not  believe  it." 

"  Nay,  sweetheart,  be  calm.  Is  your  husband  a  man 
to  yield  up  his  love,  or  his  integrity,  to  the  evil  one,  come 
in  what  form  he  may  ?  Of  my  own  free  will  I  have  never 
looked  upon  this  woman,  or  spoken  to  her  but  once  in  my 
life." 

"I  know  it,  I  know  it,"  moaned  the  unhappy  lady. 

"  But  she  is  always  here,"  continued  Sir  William,  lay 
ing  a  hand  on  his  heart.  "  She  haunts  me.  I  cannot 
drive  her  image  away.  Sleeping  and  waking  I  am  shadow- 
haunted." 

Lady  Phipps  gazed  on  her  husband  in  pale  dismay. 
At  last  she  cried  out — "  Oh,  my  God  !  my  God  !  help 
him — help  me,  for  he  loves  this  woman." 

"  Be  calm,  and  let  me  tell  every  thing.  In  this  matter 
I  would  not  have  a  single  reservation.  What  I  say  will 
give  you  pain,  but  my  conscience  must  clear  itself.  Since 
I  first  saw  this  woman,  something  that  I  cannot  describe 
— a  feeling  so  intangible  that  it  is  in  vain  I  strive  to 
grasp  it — divides  me  from — it  is  hard  to  speak,  and  I 
would  rather  perish  than  wound  you,  my  wife — but  it 
seems  to  point  out  my  union  with  you  as  a — a — I  cannot 
utter  it.  God  help  us  both  !  This  witch  in  her  prison 
poisons  my  heart  with  feelings  that  I  can  neither  repel  nor 
describe.  Either  she  or  I  must  perish  before  my  soul  is 
free  again." 

Lady  Phipps  sat  gazing  on  him  in  affright;  her  eyes 


892  THE   WIFE'S   APPEAL. 

widened,  her  face  contracted.  "  Ob,  my  husband  !  has  it 
come  to  this?"  she  cried  out  in  bitter  anguish  ;  "and  I 
was  pleading  for  her  life.  Poor,  poor  Elizabeth  !  it  was 
thus  her  young  heart  suffered.  What  can  I  do  ?  How 
ought  I  to  act  ?" 

"  Let  us  be  still,  and  crave  help  of  God,"  said  the 
governor,  solemnly.  "  I  have  been  asking  such  questions 
of  the  Lord  all  night,  and  my  resolve  was  firm." 

Awed  by  the  thrilling  earnestness  of  his  voice  Lady 
Phipps  bowed  her  head  and  fell  into  a  painful  reverie, 
half  thought,  half  prayer.  When  she  looked  up  a  sweet 
calmness  shone  in  her  eyes. 

"  Still,  my  husband,  I  say  pardon  this  woman,  and  let 
her  go  beyond  the  seas." 

"  That  she  may  render  other  men  wretched  as  I  am  ?" 
exclaimed  Sir  William.  "  Nay,  do  not  plead  for  her. 
The  evidence  of  her  sorcery  is  here,  in  my  bosom.  This 
clamorous  pity,  which  will  not  let  me  rest,  is  a  part  of  it. 
Knowing  what  I  know,  feeling  the  entire  justice  of  her 
condemnation,  I  have  but  one  course  before  me." 

"And  the  woman  must  die  ?"  exclaimed  Lady  Pbipps, 
piteously,  forgetting  her  own  wrongs  in  the  flood  of  com 
passion  that  filled  her  heart. 

A  shudder  ran  through  Sir  William's  strong  frame  as 
he  repeated  her  words  :  "  The  woman  must  die  1" 

"  Take  time — only  take  a  few  more  hours  for  considera 
tion,"  pleaded  the  self-sacrificing  wife.  "  It  is  like  send 
ing  her  into  eternity  when  you  banish  her  across  the 
ocean.  Do  that,  and  so  let  her  pass  out  of  our  lives." 

"  Nay,  I  will  do  nothing.  Think  you,  child,  that  this 
heart  does  not  tempt  me  enough  ?  Must  your  sweet  mag 
nanimity  urge  on  its  weakness  ?  Hark  I  that  is  Samuel 


THE    FOREIGN    PACKAGE.  893 

Parris  claiming  admittance.  I  will  not  see  him.  Of  all 
others,  I  will  not  see  him  !" 

"  Oh,  but  he  is  a  good  man — a  just  and  merciful  man," 
pleaded  the  wife. 

"  I  will  not  see  him,  nevertheless,  nor  any  one  till  to 
morrow  is  over.  Bring  my  overcoat  and  hat.  I  will  go 
through  the  back  enhance  to  the  stables  and  so  escape 
him." 

"  Here  is  the  coat  and  hat  as  you  cast  them  off  yester 
day.  1  am  glad  of  this.  The  fresh  air  may  put  merciful 
thoughts  in  your  heart.  Which  way  will  you  ride  ?  We 
will  not  give  up  the  hope  that  some  good  angel  will  urge 
you  back  with  a  merciful  resolve."  The  lady  spoke  rapidly 
and  with  tears  swelling  into  her  eyes. 

"  I  shall  ride  to  Providence,  nor  return  under  some 
days.  Farewell !  God  be  with  you,  and  forgive  her." 

Sir  William  went  away  in  haste,  without  other  farewell. 

It  was  a  full  hour  before  Lady  Phipps  left  the  library. 


CHAPTER    XLYIII. 

THE     FOREIGN     PACKAGE. 

AFTER  Sir  William's  departure  a  package  was  brought 
to  his  house  bearing  a  foreign  postmark,  and  sealed  with 
unusual  formality.  It  was  for  Barbara  Stafford,  directed 
to  the  care  of  Sir  William  Phipps,  and  had  doubtless 
come  over  in  the  ship  which  Norman  had  seen  the  day 
before  buffeting  its  course  shoreward  through  the  storm. 


894  THE     FOREIGN     PACKAGE. 

When  this  package  was  brought  to  Lady  Phipps  she 
held  it  irresolute  for  some  minutes.  An  idea  flashed 
across  her  mind  that  it  contained  some  hint  of  that  un 
happy  woman's  life,  and  a  wild  impulse  rose  in  her  heart 
to  read  it.  But  such  thoughts  could  find  no  resting-place 
in  her  pure  nature.  She  called  to  Norman  Lovel,  gave 
him  the  package,  and  bade  him  take  it  at  once  to  the 
prison. 

Norman  placed  the  package  in  his  bosom,  drew  his 
cloak  over  it,  and  went  forth  one  of  the  heaviest-hearted 
men  ever  called  upon  to  undertake  a  cruel  labor  of  love. 
He  had  stayed  away  from  the  prison  purposely,  hoping 
that  the  governor  might  yet  return ;  but  when  the  night 
stole  on  with  such  ruthless  certainty,  he  was  preparing  to 
visit  the  prisoner  with  the  heart-rending  assurance  that 
Sir  William  Phipps  had  uttered  bis  irrevocable  decree. 
There  was  no  hope  for  her.  On  the  morrow  she  must 
die.  Filled  with  such  trouble  as  youth  seldom  knows,  he 
took  the  package  in  silence,  and  went  his  way. 

Norman  found  Barbara  Stafford  in  her  dungeon  reading 
in  a  prayer-book  which  the  authorities  had  permitted  her 
to  receive  with  other  articles  of  her  own  property  from 
her  trunks  in  the  farm-house.  She  looked  up  as  Norman 
entered,  and  met  his  despairing  glance  with  a  faint  smile. 

"I  have  been  expecting  you,"  she  said. 

"And  now  I  come  to  say — " 

He  could  not  utter  the  word,  but  stood  before  her 
dumb  with  anguish. 

"  That  I  must  suffer  to-morrow.  Do  not  grieve  ;  I  ex 
pected  it,"  she  said,  with  sweet  sadness. 

"  It  is  true.     The  governor  is  inexorable." 

Never  to  his  dying  day  did  he  forget  the  expression  of 
that  face  when  he  told  Barbara  how  hopeless  his  suit  had 


THE     FOREIGN     PACKAGE.  895 

been.  It  was  like  that  of  a  grieved  angel,  calm  and 
mournful,  but  holy  with  resignation.  It  seemed  as  if  her 
soul  were  repeating  the  words  of  our  Saviour,  "Father, 
forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do  !" 

Norman  sat  down  by  her,  but  could  not  speak.  He  had 
come  himself  with  the  terrible  tidings,  hoping  to  soften 
her  fate  by  words  of  soothing  and  consolation,  but  the 
occasion  was  too  overpowering ;  he  could  only  sit  at  her 
feet  and  gaze  wistfully  into  her  eyes  for  the  comfort  he 
had  lost  all  power  to  give. 

After  a  time  the  doomed  woman  made  a  gentle  attempt 
to  soothe  him,  and  calm  the  anguish,  which  was  the  more 
terrible  because  of  its  stillness.  But  the  very  sound  of 
her  voice  thrilled  him  with  pain.  She  saw  that  he  could 
not  speak.  Her  hand  fell  gently  on  his  head,  and  bending 
over  him  she  whispered  : 

"  My  son,  remember  how  few  years  lie  between  this 
home  and  that  meeting  which  will  be  all  joy.  Nay,  do 
not  weep  so,  or  you  will  make  me  wish  to  live." 

"  Oh,  would  to  God  that  I  could  die  for  you  I"  cried  the 
young  man  in  a  burst  of  passionate  grief. 

"  Hush  !  hush  !  In  this  world  one  meets  with  many 
things  harder  to  endure  than  death.  When  that  comes 
we  may  hope  for  such  sweet  pity  as  you  give  me  now ; 
but  there  exist  sorrows  which  must  be  borne  in  silence, 
to  which  even  a  violent  exit  from  life  is  happiness.  Do 
not  mourn  for  me,  now,  dear  friend,  for  I  have  learned  to 
suffer  and  be  patient.  Come,  cheer  up.  I  must  find  that 
smile  on  your  face  before  we  part  to-night.  See  how 
your  grief  has  disturbed  me.  I  had  almost  forgotten  to 
inquire  after  that  sweet  child,  Elizabeth  Parris,  for  in  the 
greatest  peril  I  did  not  forget  that  the  young  girl,  my  in 
nocent  enemy,  was  borne  from  the  court  insensible. 


896  THE     FOREIGN     PACKAGE. 

Nay,  do  not  shake  that  head,  but  tell  me  how  much  you 
love  this  pretty  creature.  My  time  is  short,  but  I  may 
yet  have  power  to  brighten  your  lives." 

"  There  will  be  nothing  bright  for  me  after  you  are 
gone  !"  was  the  mournful  answer. 

"  Nay,  but  I  will  make  my  very  memory  a  blessing  to 
you  both.  You  must  wed  this  girl,  for  she  loves  you 
dearly." 

"  I  know  it,"  answered  the  young  man,  lifting  his  head 
and  gazing  on  his  doomed  friend  through  a  blinding  rush 
of  tears.  "And  I  loved  her  before — " 

"  Hush,  hush  !  You  love  her  now — ever  will  love  her. 
There  is  one  thing,  Xorman,  which  I  think  would  make 
me  die  happier." 

"Any  thing  that  I  can  do  ?"  he  questioned  eagerly. 

"  Yes ;  before  I — before  to-morrow  it  would  comfort 
me  to  feel  certain  of  your  marriage  with  Elizabeth 
Parris." 

"  What !  now,  in  this  gloomy  place,  can  you  think  of 
that  ?" 

"  But  it  is  not  so  very  gloomy.  I  am  prepared.  Now, 
I  remember,  where  is  the  leather  case  which  I  entrusted 
to  your  keeping  that  day  when  you  claimed  me  from  the 
soldiers  in  Salem  ?  I  trust  it  is  in  safety,  for  when  I  am 
gone  its  contents  shall  be  yours;  and  they  are  of  value." 

"  I  brought  the  case  with  me,  under  my  cloak,  thinking 
that  it  might  contain  gold  which  you  could  use." 

"  Yes  ;  you  will  find  gold  theret  after  I  am  gone.  Keep 
it  with  the  rest." 

"  Dear  friend,  you  will  break  my  heart  with  this  cruel 
kindness." 

"  What !  I  ?  No  I  no !  I  wish  to  make  you  very 
happy." 


«     THE     FOREIGN     PACKAGE.  897 

"  Lady,  in  my  grief  I  forgot  every  thing.  Here  is  a 
package  which  came  over  from  England  in  a  ship  which 
has  just  arrived." 

Barbara  started,  and  a  sudden  color  came  to  her  face. 
The  excitement  was  but  momentary.  She  received  the 
package  from  Norman's  hand  without  looking  at  it. 

"  Like  all  things  else  it  comes  too  late,"  she  vaid, 
quietly;  "still  I  thank  you." 

That  moment  a  turnkey  opened  her  dungeon  door,  and 
peered  in  with  a  wistful,  inquiring  look  ;  over  his  shoulders 
appeared  a  thin  face,  sharp,  and  grayish  pale,  whose  black 
eyes  wandered  through  the  dungeon  with  a  sort  of  timid 
eagerness,  as  if  he  searched,  and  yet  shrunk  from  some 
object. 

Barbara  Stafford  saw  the  face,  and  stood  up  with  a 
mournful  smile  on  her  lip ;  thus  she  remained,  waiting, 
till  Samuel  Parris  came  in,  and  paused  before  her,  like 
the  ghost  of  some  pale  friar  that  had  wandered  from  its 
substance. 

"  Samuel  Parris,  my  kiud  host,  my  stern  accuser,"  said 
Barbara  Stafford.  "Alas  !  old  man,  you  seem  more  dreary 
than  I ;  no  wonder  :  my  troubles  will  be  over  to-morrow  ; 
but  yours — oh  !  God  forgive  you,  Samuel  Parris !  May 
the  God  of  heaven  help  you  to  forgive  yourself  1" 

Samuel  Parris  sat  down  upon  a  stool.  He  had  come 
to  persuade  Barbara  Stafford  into  saving  herself  by  con 
fession,  for  her  coming  death  troubled  him  sorely  ;  but 
v.  hen  he  saw  her  standing  there,  so  calm  and  pale,  like  a 
queen — no,  like  that  grander  thing,  a  brave,  delicate 
woman,  who  knows  how  to  die  like  a  woman — he  had  no 
voice  wherewith  to  tempt  her  weakness,  or  win  on  her 
conscience  ;  but  sat  down,  with  trouble  in  his  eyes,  gazing 
oa  her  in  silence. 


898  THE     FOREIGN     PACKAGE. 

"  Old  man,"  said  Barbara,  smiling,  oh  1  how  mournfully, 
"  if  you  came  to  encourage  me  to  support  my  weakness 
through  the  dark  scene  of  to-morrow,  I  thank  you." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  old  man,  "  I  came  to  exhort  thee  to 
confession." 

Barbara  made  a  faint  movement  with  her  hand. 

"  Without  that,"  continued  the  minister,  "  there  is  no 
hope.  Governor  Phipps  has  left  his  home,  that  his  heart 
may  be  no  longer  wrung  with  our  importunities,  for  I, 
even  I,  and  Elizabeth  my  daughter — nay,  the  very  wife 
of  his  bosom — have  been  on  our  knees  before  him  to  no 
avail.  Now,  that  death  treads  so  closely  on  our  words, 
we,  who  have  been  thy  honest  accusers,  would  fain  see 
thee  sent  safely  beyond  seas,  rather  than  this  fearful 
sentence  should  be  fulfilled." 

Barbara  Stafford  bent  her  face,  shrouding  it  with  both 
hands,  while  a  flood  of  soft,  sweet  tears  rained  from  her 
eyes.  It  was  comforting  to  know  that  even  these,  her 
bitter  enemies,  had  relented  a  little. 

"  Old  man,"  she  said,  with  gentle  dignity,  "  I  have 
nothing  to  confess  connected  with  the  crime  of  which  you 
charge  me." 

"But  without  confession  there  can  be  no  forgiveness; 
of  that  rest  assured,"  pleaded  the  minister. 

"  Nor  can  I  ask  forgiveness  for  a  crime  which  has  never 
been  committed.  Old  man,  I  thank  you  for  this  kind 
intent,  but  it  can  be  of  no  avail.  I  am  a  weak  woman,  it 
is  true,  and  shrink  from  suffering,  but  that  which  God 
permits  I  will  strive  to  endure  with  befitting  courage." 

"Unhappy  woman,"  said  the  minister,  regarding  her 
with  a  look  of  intense  compassion,  "  can  nothing  be  done 
to  persuade  thee  ?  Wouldst  thou  die  and  leave  doubt  on 
the  soul  of  an  old  man  who  never  meant  evil  by  thee  ?" 


THE     FOREIGN     PACKAGE.  399 

The  minister's  voice  was  low  and  entreating.  He 
seemed  about  to  weep.  Barbara  went  close  to  him 

•'  If  it  will  avail  to  make  you  happier,"  she  said,  gently, 
"  I  can  say  of  a  truth  that  I  believe  you  have  dealt 
honestly  with  me,  and  when  death  comes,  I,  the  victim 
and  the  sufferer,  hold  you  free  from  all  blame.  If  I  have 
in  any  thing  brought  trouble  under  your  roof,  forgive  me 
now  before  we  part  forever." 

As  she  stood  thus,  bowed  forward,  with  both  hands  up 
to  her  temples,  there  was  something  in  the  attitude,  and 
in  the  very  depth  of  her  sobs,  that  struck  the  old  man 
with  ^compassion.  He  stood  up,  and  with  his  withered 
hands  attempted  to  put  back  the  hair  from  her  face,  as  if 
she  had  been  a  little  girl  whose  grief  he  pitied. 

"  Would  to  God  thou  hadst  never  crossed  my  path,"  he 
said  ;  "  or  that  I  had  now  the  power  to  save  as  it  baa  been 
given  me  to  destroy." 

"  Do  not  mourn  for  me,  or  blame  yourself,"  answered 
the  lady.  "If  it  seems  hard  to  die,  it  was  harder  still  to 
live.  Give  me  your  blessing,  Samuel  Parris,  for,  despite 
the  fate  that  threatens  me,  I  do  think  you  a  Christian. 
So  let  us  part  in  peace. '' 

The  old  man  lifted  his  hands,  and  blessed  the  woman 
he  had  destroyed. 

Barbara  turned  to  Norman  Level.  "  Go  with  this 
good  old  man,"  she  said.  "  He  is  heavy-hearted  to 
night.  Speak  kindly  to  him,  and  come  early  in  the 
morning.  You  will  stay  with  me  to  the  last" 

"  To  the  last !"  answered  the  young  man.     Then  he  ami 
the  minister  went  out,  leaving  Barbara  Stafford  alone. 
25 


400  STRANGE    TIDINGS. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

STRANGE  TIDINGS. 

WHEN  the  footsteps  of  her  visitors  died  away  in  the 
ante-room,  she  became  conscious  of  the  package  which 
Norman  Lovel  had  given  her,  .and  going  up  to  a  window 
Bunk  deep  in  the  wall,  and  dim  with  dust,  she  broke  the 
seal  and  began  to  read  its  contents.  All  at  once  her 
face  lighted  up.  She  read  one  passage  over  and  over 
again,  clasped  her  hand  in  a  delirium  of  sudden  gladness, 
and  cried  out  iu  her  prison  : 

;<  Thank  God  !  oh,  thank  my  God  that  I  have  lived  to 
know  this  !  But  to  learn  it  now,  with  only  a  few  hours 
of  life.  Father  of  heaven,  grant  me  a  little  time — just  a 
little  time,  in  which  I  may  taste  all  the  fulness  of  this 
great  blessing  !" 

She  walked  the  room  up  and  down,  seized  with  a  wild 
desire  to  go  free.  Her  bonds  for  the  first  time  seemed 
insupportable.  The  sound  of  a  turnkey  near  her  door 
drew  her  that  way.  She  beat  against  the  massive  oak 
with  her  hand,  calling  aloud.  A  heavy  key  grated  in  its 
lock,  and  the  man  came  in. 

"  Go,"  she  said,  handing  him  a  piece  of  money ;  "  send 
a  messenger  after  the  minister,  Samuel  Parris,  who  has 
left  me  but  now.  Say  that  I  would  speak  with  him  at 
once.  Lose  no  time,  I  beseech  you." 

The  man  closed  the  door,  turned  the  key  in  its  lock, 
and  Barbara  was  alone  again — alone,  with  what  different 
thoughts  to  those  that  had  occupied  her  when  Lovel 


STRANGE     TIDINGS.  401 

came  in  !  Thrilling  excitement,  eager  hope,  a  wild  com 
motion  of  feelings  forbade  all  connected  thoughts.  She 
walked  the  floor — she  clasped  and  unclasped  her  hands — 
words  of  tender  endearment  dropped  from  her  lips.  Mine 
mine  !  mine  !  The  baby  that  they  told  me  was  dead — so 
beautiful !  so  generous  !  Ah,  after  this  wonderful  blessing 
I  should  be  ready  to  die.  But  now  the  fear  of  death  is 
terrible.  All  the  life  within  me  rises  up  to  reject  it.  I 
would  live  to  a  good  old  age.  He,  my  son — my  own  dear 
son — should  watch  the  gray  hair  stealing  over  my  head, 
and  love  me  all  the  better  for  them.  It  must  be  pleasant 
to  grow  old  in  the  sight  of  one's  child.  This  is  why  he 
loved  me  so.  I  could  not  understand  it — nor  could  be. 
How  I  longed  to  kiss  him  as  he  knelt  before  me  not  an 
hour  since  !  To-morrow  I  shall  see  him  again.  To-mor 
row — oh,  my  God  !  what  is  to  happen  then  ! 

She  paused  in  her  walk,  and  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor,  struck  dumb  and  white  by  a  terrible  thought.  How 
fate  mocked  her  !  This  revelation,  which  bad  thrilled  her 
whole  being  with  new-born  joy,  was  after  all  only  a  temp 
tation  to  entice  her  from  the  sacrifice  she  had  resolved  to 
make.  On  all  sides  events  seemed  forcing  her  on  to 
death.  Now,  when  life  might  have  been  so  sweet,  she 
must  turn  resolutely  away  from  it,  and  meet  her  awful 
fate.  Pale  still,  dumb  with  mighty  anguish,  Barbara  fell 
upon  her  knees  and  prayed.  All  things  conspired  against 
her.  Death,  that  she  bad  considered  with  such  resigna 
tion  an  hour  before,  "was  now  surrounded  with  the  bitter 
ness  of  revolt.  Her  heart  yearned  for  the  life  which  it 
still  rejected. 

She  knelt  and  prayed,  wringing  her  hands  and  crying 
on  God  for  help — not  to  escape  her  doom,  but  to  bear  it 
now  that  existence  had  been  made  so  precious.  She  arose 


402  STRANGE     TIDINGS. 

firm  and  resolute,  but  not  calm — that  she  could  never  be 
again.  The  struggle  in  her  soul  was  terrible  ;  but  the 
spirit  of  self-abnegation  grew  strong  within  her,  and  would 
prevail. 

When  Samuel  Parris  entered  the  dungeon  again,  ne 
scarcely  recognized  the  prisoner  ;  her  cheeks  were  scarlet, 
her  eyes  like  stars.  A  hundred  lives  seemed  to  have 
been  crowded  into  that  one  hour. 

Barbara  went  up  to  the  minister,  and  tock  his  hand 
with  an  eager  grasp. 

"A  little  while  ago,"  she  said,  "you  asked  me  to  con 
fess,  and  I  refused.  I  have  now  recalled  you  for  that 
very  purpose.  I  had  intended  to  die  and  make  no  sign, 
but  that  resolve  is  broken  up.  Sit  down,  Samuel  Parris, 
and  listen  to  me." 

"  I  listen,"  said  the  old  man. 

"It  is  not  of  this  idle  charge  of  witchcraft  that  I  wish 
to  speak,"  she  said,  hurriedly  ;  "  but  of  myself,  my  life, 
my  history.  Can  you  listen  with  patience  ?" 

"  With  patience,  and  in  all  charity,"  was  the  solemn 
reply. 

"But  first  I  must  have  a  promise — your  solemn  prom 
ise  before  God — that  what  I  say  to  you  shall  not  be 
revealed  to  any  living  soul  till  after  my  death.  Samuel 
Parris,  will  you  give  me  this  promise  ?  Remember  it  is 
a  dying  woman  who  asks  it." 

"  Even  if  it  prove  a  confession  of  guilt  that  you  wish  to 
make  before  me  as  a  minister  of  the  Most  High,  there 
would  be  no  wrong  in  the  promise  ;  therefore  I  will  give  it." 

"  But  there  is  no  confession  of  sin  to  wound  your  ear 
or  trouble  your  conscience  ;  that  which  I  have  to  say 
need  not  draw  a  blush  to  my  own  face,  or  a  frown  from 
yours  Have  I  your  promise  ?" 


STRANGE    TIDINGS.  403 

"  I  have  promised  already,"  said  the  minister. 

"  Solemnly  and  before  the  God  of  heaven  ?" 

"  Every  promise  that  a  just  man  makes  is  registered 
in  heaven.  Lady,  thou  canst  trust  me.  Never  yet  havo 
I  broken  faith  with  man  or  woman." 

"  I  can  trust  you — and  I  will.  Samuel  Parris,  look 
at  me." 

Barbara  unwound  the  lace  scarf  that  was  usually 
twisted  about  her  head  like  a  turban,  and  the  waves  of 
magnificent  hair  thus  fully  exposed  fell  loose  upon  her 
shoulders.  Throwing  all  these  golden  tresses  back  from 
her  forehead  with  a  sweep  of  her  two  hands,  she  turned 
her  face  full  upon  the  minister. 

"  Samuel  Parris,  do  you  know  me  ?"  The  old  man 
looked  at  her  in  dumb  bewilderment.  The  scarlet  burn 
ing  in  her  cheeks,  the  splendor  of  her  eyes,  made  his  heart 
leap  toward  a  full  recognition.  He  could  not  answer,  but 
stood  gazing  upon  her  with  a  strange,  doubtful  look.  She 
dropped  her  hands  ;  the  hair  fell  in  curling  masses  down 
her  back.  Her  face  drooped  forward.  She  was  disap 
pointed  that  he  did  not  recognize  her  at  once. 

The  thin  features  of  Samuel  Parris  kindled  up,  first 
with  doubt,  then  with  fear,  and  again  with  positive  con 
viction. 

Her  attitude  and  the  disposal  of  her  hair  revealed  her 
to  him. 

Samuel  Parris  stood  dumb  and  pale,  gazing  at  her 
resolutely. 

Neither  of  the  two  spoke.  They  looked  in  each  other's 
eyes  afraid  :  at  last  the  minister  found  voice. 

"  Alive  !"  he  said,  "  alive  I  and  here?  Oh  !  my  God, 
my  God,  what  has  thy  servant  done  that  he  should  see 
this  day  ?" 


404  STRANGE     TIDINGS. 

"  You  know  me  then,  Samuel  Parris  ?  You  know  mo 
then  ?" 

"  Alas  !  alas  I"  The  old  man  wrune  his  hands  in  wild 
excitement. 

"  And  now  you  understand  my  presence  here,  my  an 
guish  and  my  silence  ?" 

"  Oh  !  God  forgive  us  ! — God  forgive  us  !"  moaned  the 
old  man. 

"  You  thought  me  dead,  Samuel  Parris  :  would  that  it 
had  been  so,  but  the  unhappy  cannot  die  when  they  wish." 

"  And  thou  art  condemned  to  death  !  we,  the  wrongers 
and  the  sinful,  have  done  this.  But  it  is  not  too  late,  it 
shall  not  be  too  late." 

The  old  man  started  toward  the  door,  but  Barbara  laid 
her  hand  on  his  arm.  "I  have  your  promise,  Samuel  Parris." 

The  old  man  fell  back  against  the  wall  as  if  he  had  been 
shot. 

"  Henceforth  my  fate  rests  in  my  own  hands,"  said  the 
lady,  with  gentle  firmness.  "  If  I  revealed  myself  to  you 
it  was  not  to  save  this  poor  life,  but  because  in  no  other 
way  can  justice  be  done  to  the  living." 

"But  it  must  not  be,"  cried  the  minister,  wringing  his 
hands.  "  Woman,  woman,  why  did  you  not  confide  in  me 
from  the  first  ?" 

"  And  thus  ruin  him  ?" 

"  Oh,  mercy  !  mercy  I  how  hard  it  is  to  act  rightly  I" 
cried  the  old  man. 

"  Sit  down  by  me  here  o"n  this  bench,"  said  Barbara, 
kindly.  "I  have  no  better  seat  to  offer  you.  Sit  dc-.vn, 
old  friend,  and  be  calm  as  I  am." 

The  old  man  obeyed  her,  and,  lifting  his  haggard  eyes 
to  her  face,  gazed  upon  her  with  the  helplessness  of  a  child. 

She  had  become  almost  calm  :  a  gracious  dew  overspread 


BARBARA  STAFFORD'S  STORY.   405 

her  forehead  and  the  light  of  a  holy  resolve  shone  in  her 
eyes. 

"  I  must  tell  you  every  thing,"  she  bdid,  "  for  after  I  am 
gone  you  will  take  my  duties  up  and  bear  them  forward 
for  my  sake." 

"  Speak  on  :  I  listen,"  answered  the  old  man  in  a  broken 
hearted  voice. 


CHAPTER  L. 

/ 

BARBARA    STAFFORD'S   STORY. 

4 

BARBARA  STAFFORD  covered  her  face  with  both  hands,  for 
a  moment  pressing  her  temples  hard,  as  if  she  hoped  thus 
to  still  the  crowd  of  thoughts  under  which  her  brain 
struggled. 

"  Let  me  begin  years  back  when  you  performed  the 
marriage  rite  which  has  been  the  glory  and  bitterness  of 
my  life,"  she  commenced  at  last,  in  a  low,  forced  voice  that 
betrayed  the  painful  effort  she  was  making.  "  My  father 
was  a  proud  man,  as  you  know,  but  how  much  reason  he 
had  for  this  lofty  ancestral  pride  no  one  on  this  side  of  the 
Atlantic  ever  guessed.  He  was,  in  fact,  when  we  came  to 
this  country,  the  next  heir  to  one  of  the  richest  earldoms 
in  England — one  of  those  few  titles  that  fall  alike  to  male 
and  female  heirs.  My  paternal  grandmother  was  then 
living,  and  his  near  connection  with  her  honors  was  but 
little  known.  After  my  mother's  death — her  maiden  name 
was  Barbara  Stafford,  that  which  I  now  bear  as  a  disguise— 


406       BARBARA     STAFFORD'S     STORY. 

we  came  to  America,  urged  by  curiosity  to  see  a  country  so 
grand  and  wild,  so  full  of  wonderful  promise. 

"  I  was  young  then,  scarcely  more  than  sixteen.  We 
were  thrown  together — you  know  who  I  mean — even 
here  I  would  not  mention  his  name  and  wound  the  honor 
for  which  I  am  ready  to  die.  We  loved  each  other  with 
the  first  bright  passion  of  youth,  with  the  enduring  love 
which  fills  a  whole  life  with  bliss  or  a  perpetual  weight  of 
pain.  We  were  young,  rash,  mad.  I  knew  how  hope 
less  it  was  to  attempt  winning  my  father's  consent.  The 
noble  youth  your  solemn  voice  made  my  husband  was 
his  equal  or  the  equal  of  »nr  man  who  «ver  drew  breath ; 
but  he  was  poor — a  man  of  the  people,  a  working  man, 
though  educated  with  the  best,  in  intellect  and  energy  equal 
to  those  who  build  up  dynasties.  My  father  was  struck 
dumb  with  his  audacity,  when  he  asked  my  hand  in  mar 
riage.  So  embittered  was  he  with  this  outrage  to  his 
pride  that  he  hastened  to  leave  the  country.  But  for  a 
few  days,  contrary  winds  held  him  weather-bound.  Then 
driven  to  despair,  we  fled  to  you,  my  husband's  old  friend. 

"  Do  not  shrink  and  moan  so.  It  was  a  holy  union  you 
sanctified  that  night.  I  have  suffered,  oh,  how  terribly, 
since,  but  never  regretted  it,  never  shall  regret  it  even 
in  my  death-throes. 

"  During  three  weeks  after  that  ride  through  the  forest 
when  I  returned  to  Boston  a  happy  bride — for,  spite  of  all, 
I  was  happy — we  met  in  secret  and  arranged  that  he 
should  follow  me  to  England,  and  there,  before  the  whole 
world,  demand  me  of  my  father.  We  sailed.  Hidden 
away  in  an  inferior  part  of  the  vessel,  he  went  with  us, 
never  appearing  on  deck  till  after  night-fall  and  keeping 
hia  presence  in  the  ship  a  secret  from  my  father. 

"  We  reached  England  at  last   and  went  up  to  London, 


BARBARA     3  T  A  F  F  U  R  D   S     STORY.      407 

where  my  father  threw  me  into  a  whirl  of  fashionable  life, 
hoping  thus  to  win  my  thoughts  from  the  man  who  was 
my  husband.  I  resisted  :  the  pleasures  of  society  were 
worse  than  nothing  to  me,  and  I  thus  once  more  incurred 
my  father's  anger.  Samuel  Parris,  you  know  the  man  who 
was  my  husband,  his  pride  of  character,  his  indomitable 
integrity.  Holding  my  father's  objections  trivial  and  in 
sulting  to  his  manhood,  he  had  swept  them  aside  in  scorn  : 
it  was  only  for  my  sake  that  he  consented  to  concealment 
for  a  single  hour.  When  he  saw  that  the  result  of  this 
secrecy  was  my  humiliation — that  I  was  forced  to  act  a 
falsehood  before  the  world — he  put  every  other  thought 
aside  and  resolved  to  declare  our  marriage  and  endure  its 
consequences  as  he  best  might. 

"I  remember  the  morning  well.  My  father  was  at  home 
in  our  town  residence,  surrounded  by  all  the  pomp  of  state 
and  subserviency  of  well-trained  menials.  The  knowledge 
that  my  young  husband  had  a  painful  duty  to  perform 
excited  all  that  was  courageous  or  noble  in  my  nature,  and 
I  felt  a  certain  sublime  animation  in  the  thought  of  stand 
ing  by  his  side  while  he  proclaimed  me  his  lawful  wife. 
I  was  young,  and  loved  my  husband  so  dearly  that  the 
disobedience  of  which  we  had  both  been  guilty  seemed 
trivial  compared  with  the  complete  happiness  of  our  union. 
Since  then  I  have  learned  how  fatally  domestic  rebellion 
may  root  itself  into  a  human  life.  The  day  came.  My 
father  was  in  his  library.  Every  thing  had  gone  well 
with  him  since  our  return.  He  stood  high  at  court,  was  a 
favorite  in  society,  and  all  his  projects  of  aggrandizement, 
some  of  them  bearing  upon  my  fate  in  life,  seemed  to 
promise  a  happy  fulfilment.  He  did  not  dream  of  the  im 
pediment  my  marriage  would  cast  in  the  way  of  his  am 
bition.  Up  to  that  time  he  had  no  idea  that  William  wa« 


408       BARBARA     STAFFORD'S     STORY. 

in  England,  or  that  my  liking  for  him  had  amounted  to 
more  than  a  passing  folly. 

"  Half  an  hour  before  the  time  appointed  for  our  mutual 
declaration,  my  father  sent  for  me.  I  found  him  in  brilliant 
spirits  and  almost  caressingly  kind.  He  met  me  with 
unusual  affection,  kissed  me  with  smiling  lips,  and  pro 
claimed  triumphantly  that  a  noble  suitor  had  just  left  him, 
and  that  it  was  my  own  fault  if  I  did  not  become  a 
duchess  within  the  month. 

"  I  might  have  met  this  announcement  with  some  courage 
had  my  husband  been  there  with  his  strong  will  and  calm 
self-reliance  ;  as  it  was  I  could  only  tremble  in  my  father's 
arms  and  shrink  guiltily  from  his  caresses.  He  looked  for 
blushes  and  found  me  pale  as  snow,  for  I  knew  that  this 
offer,  so  gratifying  to  his  pride,  would  give  tenfold  bitter 
ness  to  his  disappointment. 

"  While  I  stood  mute  and  cold,  dreading  to  speak, 
William  was  announced.  I  dared  not  look  at  my  father, 
but  knew,  from  his  suppressed  breathing,  that  he  was  silent 
only  from  intense  rage.  You  saw  William  in  his  youth, 
and  know  how  grand  was  his  presence,  how  distinguished 
his  bearing.  If  nobility  was  ever  written  upon  a  human 
form,  it  shone  out  in  native  splendor  there.  Approaching 
me  as  if  he  had  been  an  emperor  and  I  his  mate,  this  man 
of  humble  birth  took  my  hand  in  his,  and,  with  simple  but 
most  touching  earnestness,  confessed  his  fault  in  making 
me  his  wife. 

"Dumb  and  white  with  wratb-^my  father  attempted  to 
annihilate  him  with  a  look,  at  which  my  heart  rose  in 
proud  rebellion,  and  I  felt  the  hot  blood  in  my  cheek.  But 
William  was  se}f-poised,  and  bore  himself  with  a  sort 
of  brave  humility  that  should  have  disarmed  even  raee 
itself. 


BARBARA     STAFFORD'S     STORY.       409 

"  '  If  I  have  done  wronpr  in  stealing  this  dear  one  from 
you,'  he  said,  '  we  have  both  suffered  more  than  you  will 
believe.  If  there  is  any  penalty  that  you  ca~  impose — 
any  probation  that  will  atone  for  an  act,  which  though 
wrong  we  cannot  repent  of — name  it,  and  if  human  effort 
can  win  a  blessing  from  your  lips  it  shall  yet  be 
deserved.' 

"  My  father  stood  before  us,  towering  haughtily  upward 
in  his  outraged  pride  ;  his  face  was  ashen  with  the  white 
heat  of  smothered  wrath.  He  was  always  a  man  of  few 
words,  but  those  which  fell  from  his  lips  then  burned  into 
my  memory  like  living  coals. 

"  '  Go,  earn  a  station  high  as  that  of  my  daughter  ;  back 
it  with  wealth  such  as  makes  her  one  of  the  richest 
women  in  England.  Then,  and  not  till  then,  ask  her  at 
my  hands.' 

"  '  If  I  do  earn  a  title,  and  honorably  gam  such  wealth, 
will  you  give  her  to  me  with  a  free  will  and  generous 
blessing  ?'  asked  the  young  man  in  a  voice  that  vibrated 
with  intense  feeling.  '  In  the  brave  acts  or  persistent  ef 
forts  of  some  strong  man,  once  unknown,  the  nobility  of 
every  illustrious  house  in  England  is  rooted.  To  win 
her,  and  know  that  she  is  mine  without  dishonor,  I 
will  undertake  impossibilities  ;  if  I  succeed,  or  fail,  you 
shall  yet  acknowledge, %  proud  sir,  that  I  deserved  your 
daughter.' 

"  '  When  that  time  comes,  claim  her  at  my  hands,' 
answered  my  father,  with  cutting  unbelief  in  his  look  and 
voice*  'But  till  then  she  remains  uader  my  authority, 
and  bearing  the  name  she  has  secretly  dishonored.  Bar 
bara,  if  this  young  man  is  your  husband,  take  leave 
of  him  now,  for  never,  till  bis  boasted  promise  is  fulfilled, 
shall  you  meet  again.' 


410          BARBARA     STAFFORD'S     STORY. 

"  I  fell  at  that  haughty  man's  feei,  shivering  with  dread, 
cold  with  terror. 

" '  Not  that— oh,  father !  father  !  not  that !'  I  cried  out 
in  the  depths  of  my  anguish.  '  Have  mercy  upon  us, 
If  we  part  I  shall  perish.  Give  me  any  punishment  you 
will,  but  let  us  suffer  together.' 

"  But  for  a  haughty  sense  of  high  breeding  my  fatner 
would  have  spurned  me  from  his  feet.  Still  I  clung 
around  his  knees,  and  without  violence  he  could  not  fling 
me  off.  My  arms  were  softly  unclasped  from  those  iron 
limbs.  For  one  blissful  moment  I  was  strained  to  my 
husband's  bosom.  His  tears  fell  upon  my  face 

" '  Barbara,  take  hope.  I  will  claim  you,  even  as  this 
proud  noble  mockingly  suggests.  Be  patieut !  .  Have 
faith  in  me  I  One  kiss  ;  one  more,  and  now  farewell  I' 

"  My  heart  gave  a  frightened  leap  in  my  bosom.  A  cry 
froze  on  my  lips,  and  all  was  dark. 

"  This  was  in  broad  daylight ;  the  sun  streamed  in  upon 
us  through  the  gold  and  crimson  tints  of  stained  glass. 
When  I  became  conscious,  stars  were  shining  dimly 
through  the  curtains  of  my  chamber  window.  I  was 
alone ;  faint,  weary,  and  almost  dead.  Samuel  Parris,  I 
never  saw  my  husband  again  till  he  stood  before  the  altar 
of  that  church  taking  the  sacrament  from  your  hands." 

The  minister  groaned  heavily,  but  did  not  speak. 

"  He  had  left  me  insensible — left  England,  and  gone 
no  one  would  tell  me  where.  My  father  was  dumb  re 
garding  him.  If  he  wrote  letters, J,hey  never  reached  me." 

"But  he  wrote  them.  As  God  liveth,  William  Phipps 
wrote  to  his  young  wife  again  and  again,  but  received  no 
answer.  He  told  me  so  with  his  own  lips,"  cried  the 
minister.  "  It  was  for  her  he  toiled  and  thought  ever  on 
the  broad  ocean,  and  while  wresting  treasures  from  the 


BARBARA     6TAFFORI/S     STORY.          411 

deep  where  they  had  been  engulfed  for  centuries.  He 
went  back  to  England,  possessed  of  enormous  wealth, 
and  received  a  title  at  the  king's  hand  for  the  wonderful 
energy  with  which  he  had  dragged  silver  and  gold  from 
the  bosom  of  the  ocean,  discovering  their  hiding-place 
almost  by  a  miracle.  But  all  that  he  had  done  turned  to 
dust  in  his  hands,  for  when  he  went  to  that  proud  old 
man  find  demanded  his  wife,  the  stern  father  answered 
that  she  was  dead." 

"  Did  he  mourn  her,  Samuel  Parris  ?  tell  me,  truly,  did 
William  Phipps  mourn  the  death  of  his  wife,  or  had  he 
learned  to  live  without  her  ?" 

Parris  looked  up,  with  rebuking  fire  in  his  eyes. 

"Woman,  thou  kuovvest  that  he  loved  thee,  even  to 
human  sinfulness.  When  William  Phipps  came  back  to 
this  country,  broken-hearted  and  alone,  he  was  but  the 
shadow  of  the  brave  youth  whose  hand  I  joined  with  thine 
that  fatal  night." 

"  Forgive  me,"  pleaded  Barbara,  with  plaintive  humil 
ity.  "  I  loved  him,  and  am  but  a  weak  woman.  Think 
how  hard  it  was  to  yearn  so  for  one  word  of  comfort,  and 
never  dare  ask  it." 

"  Unhappy  woman  !  thine  has  been  a  hard  lot,"  cried 
the  minister,  clasping  both  her  hands  in  his,  and  weeping 
over  them  like  a  child. 

"  Tell  me  again,  kind  old  man — for  I  am  so  near  death 
that  it  cannot  harm  me  to  know — did  he  in  truth  mourn 
my  loss  ?" 

"Poor  martyr  !  he  has  never  ceased  to  grieve  over  the 
ruin  of  his  love.'- 

"  Then  he  did  love  me,  dearly  3"' 

"So  dearly,  that  I  thought  he  would  have  died  deplor 
ing  thy  loss." 


412          BARBARA     STAFFORD'S     STORY. 

Barbara  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  tears  swelled  heavily 
under  her  drooping  eyelids. 

"But  he  married  another  1"  she  said,  with  an  effort. 

"  Yes  ;  but  he  was  still  faithful  to  the  love  of  his  youth. 
It  was  but  the  ruin  of  a  heart  which  William  Phipps  gave 
in  his  second  marriage.  He  said  this  to  me  on  the  night 
when  I  was  summoned  to  perform  the  ceremony." 

"Did  he  say  this?" 

"  Of  a  verity  he  did.  It  was  like  whispering  it  to  his 
own  heart,  for  I  alone  held  his  secret.  In  the  future  he 
hoped  that  tender  friendship  might  warm  into  love ;  but 
I  had  buried  the  wife  of  my  bosom,  and  knew  how  vain 
was  the  hope." 

Barbara's  eyes  were  fastened  on  the  old  man's  face.  She 
drank  up  his  words  eagerly.  A  smile  parted  her  lips ;  a 
flush  of  roses  warmed  her  cheeks.  Then  a  shadow  swept 
over  her,  and  bending  her  head  in  gentle  humility  she 
murmured  : 

"Poor,  poor  lady  1" 

For  a  moment  both  Parris  and  the  lady  sat  together  in 
silence.  Then  Barbara  looked  up  with  a  sad  smile,  and 
went  on  with  her  story. 


A     MOTHER.  418 


CHAPTER   LI. 

A    MOTHER. 

"  TIME  wore  on,  and  I  became  a  mother.  With  the 
first  gleam  of  maternal  hopes,  such  as  thrilled  my  whole 
being  with  new-born  happiness,  I  was  hastened  into  the 
country  ;  and,  in  a  remote  estate  seldom  visited  by  the 
family,  gave  birth  to  a  sou.  My  life  was  in  great  peril; 
a  fever  set  in,  and  for  a  week  I  wandered  unconsciously 
on  the  very  brink  of  the  grave,  delirious,  and  sometimes 
wild.  When  reason  came  back,  my  father  was  there  :  he 
told  me  that  my  child  was  dead. 

"Alas,  old  man  !  mine  was  a  dreary  life  after  that. 
Honors  and  wealth  were  showered  on  my  father.  By  the 
death  of  his  mother  he  became  Earl  of  Sefton,  and  one  of 
the  wealthiest  peers  in  England  ;  but  all  this  was  em 
bittered  by  the  fact  that  I,  who  must  inherit  all  these 
privileges,  was  wedded  to  a  man,  as  he  persisted  in 
believing,  so  utterly  beneath  me.  This  thought  seemed 
to  pursue  him  like  a  demon.  At  times  my  very  presence 
appeared  hateful  to  him  ;  there  was  never  affectionate  com 
panionship  between  us.  He  was  content  that  I  should 
remain  in  the  solitude  of  the  estate  to  which  I  had  been 
consigned  almost  as  a  prisoner,  and  I,  still  hoping  against 
hope,  was  willing  to  live  in  seclusion  till  my  husband 
should  claim  me.  For,  strange  as  it  may  appear,  I  had 
faith  in  the  accomplishment  of  his  promise,  wild  as  it 
seemed. 

"  One  day — it  was  in  the  second  year  of  my  solitary 


414  A.     M  O  T  H  K  K. 

life — Lord  Sefton  came  down  to  the  country,  after  the 
rising  of  parliament ;  and  for  the  first  time  since  the  death 
of  rny  child  was  announced  to  me  spoke  of  William 
Phipps. 

"'Read  this,'  he  said,  piacing  a  newspaper  before  me, 
'  and  thank  God  that  the  disgrace  of  your  connection  with 
that  man  is  unknown.' 

"  I  unfolded  the  paper.  It  contained  a  paragraph  copied 
from  an  American  letter,  dated  two  months  hack. 

"  How  I  read  this  paragraph  through — the  agony  of 
fear  that  possessed  me — I  cannot  tell ;  but  every  word  of 
the  cruel  statement  reached  my  heart.  My  husband  was 
dead — lost  at  sea  !  I  was  a  widow. 

"  This  mournful  knowledge  broke  up  my  life.  Even 
my  father  was  terrified  by  the  state  of  dejection  into 
which  I  fell.  Thinking  that  it  was  only  the  promptings 
of  compassion  that  induced  him  to  take  me  away  from 
England,  I  was  grateful.  We  travelled  for  years  through 
Europe,  into  Egypt  and  the  Holy  Land.  Sometimes  we 
rested  in  one  place  for  months  and  months  together ;  then 
again  we  would  make  long  sea-voyages,  and  visit  places 
far  remote  from  the  usual  course  of  English  travel. 
Among  other  countries  we  went  to  Bermuda  and  the  West 
India  islands,  taking  with  us,  on  our  return,  a  young 
person,  whose  history  I  have  no  time  to  give,  but  with 
whom  my  after-life  has  been  strangely  associated. 

"  We  returned  to  England  only  a  year  ago.  My  father 
was  an  old  man  then.  I  had  left  youth  forever  behind, 
and  with  it,  all  hopes  of  such  happiness  as  a  woman's 
heart  craves  most.  We  had  l^ng  *ince  ceased  to  talk  of 
the  past.  It  was  a  sealed  subject  between  us,  but  as  my 
father  drew  near  the.  grave.  IIP  l.warae  more  tender  and 
gentle  in  our  companionship. 


A     MOTHER.  4:16 

"  A  few  weeks  after  we  returned  to  London,  Lord  Sef- 
ton  was  taken  ill  The  disease  ran  its  course  rapidly,  and 
in  three  days  he  was  on  his  death-bed.  God  forgive  the 
old  man  !  With  his  last  breath  he  told  me  of  the  terrible 
fraud  that  had  been  practised  upon  me.  My  husband  was 
living.  He  had  achieved  all  that  seemed  audacious  in  his 
promise,  and  had  been  in  England  years  before  to  claim 
his  wife.  Then  another  fraud  was  perpetrated,  and  they 
told  him  that  I  was  dead. 

"  My  father  made  this  confession  in  broken  gasps.  I 
bad  no  details,  and  could  scarcely  gather  the  facts  out  of 
his  imperfect  speech.  Something  more  he  would  have  told 
me,  but  death  was  inexorable,  and  the  secret  died  on  his 
white  lips. 

"  Thus,  striving  to  retrieve  the  evil  his  pride  had  occa 
sioned,  my  father  died  and  I  became  a  peeress  in  my  own 
right,  the  inheritor  of  more  wealth  than  I  knew  how  to 
use.  But,  far  above  all,  was  the  certainty  that  my  hus 
band  was  alive,  and  had  kept  the  noble  promise  of  his 
youth. 

"  At  last,  my  father,  whose  pride  had  widowed  me  while 
yet  scarcely  more  than  a  child,  was  laid  with  the  cold  and 
proud  of  his  ancestors,  dust  with  their  dust,  and  I,  the 
inheritor  of  his  estates,  the  lady  of  a  proud  line,  thought 
nothing  of  these  things,  but,  urged  by  one  wild  wish,  turned 
from  his  very  grave  and  set  forth  for  America,  searching 
for  the  husband  of  my  youth — the  father  of  that  child 
which  had  blessed  me  for  an  hour  and  disappeared,  but 
whose  tomb  I  had  never  seen. 

"  Thus,  full  of  hope,  I    pursued  my  voyage,  counting 

every  hour  as  a  loss  till  I  once  more  saw  the  man  who  had 

been  dearer  to  me  when  I  thought   him  beneath  the  waves 

than  all  the  earth  beside.     Xever  had  a  voyage  seemed  so 

26 


416  A    MOTHER. 

long,  and  yet  the  wind  was  fair.  How  I  wished  the  good 
ship  that  bore  us  had  wings  !  When  a  storm  blew  np 
hurling  us  westward,  I  rejoiced,  for  through  danger  W3 
should  reach  him  the  sooner.  When  a  calm  overtook  us 
my  heart  was  restless  with  impatience.  So  much  of  life 
had  been  spent  away  from  him  that  I  grudged  each 
moment  as  a  treasure  forfeited. 

"  Oh,  how  I  loved  him,  myself,  and  all  the  world  I  I 
Lad  worshipped  him  arj  a  girl — you  know  a  little  how 
much.  But  what  was  that  to  the  holy  affection  of  mature 
womanhood,  to  the  yearning  tenderness  that  filled  my  soul 
and  kindled  up  every  bright  idea  in  my  brain  that  it 
might  do  him  homage  ?  I  thought  of  the  change  years 
must  have  made  in  him — not  to  regret  that  he  was  no 
longer  young,  but  feeling  how  much  grander  he  would  be 
with  age  on  his  brow  and  a  consciousness  of  power  in 
his  bearing. 

"  On  the  passage  I  had  thought  of  myself  differently. 
Sometimes  I  would  look  at  my  hands  and  wonder  if  they 
had  lost  any  thing  of  the  symmetry  and  whiteness  he  once 
so  much  admired.  When  I  found  a  few  silver  hairs  dim 
ming  the  tresses  he  had  praised  for  their  golden  hue,  it 
would  make  me  sad  ;  for  love  grows  timid  sometimes  as  it 
deepens,  and  though  I  cared  not  for  his  departed  youth, 
every  grace  that  had  fled  with  mine  was  remembered  with 
regret.  But  I  recalled  his  last  words  and  bad  faith  in  hin 
For  his  sake  I  would  have  gifted  myself  with  perpetual 
youth  and  immortal  beauty.  There  was  no  good  thing  on 
earth  or  in  heaven  that  I  would  not  gladly  have  brought 
him. 

"  Had  it  been  possible,  I  would  have  gathered  up  sun 
lit  colors  from  the  sky  and  those  rare  tints  that  sparkle 
in  the  ocean  for  his  sake.  I  had  never  given  much  thought 


A     MOTHER.  417 

to  the  titles  and  possessions  which  had  fallen  to  me,  but 
now  they  grew  precious  in  my  estimation,  for  all  that  I 
had  was  his. 

"  We  came  in  sight  of  the  coast  in  the  midst  of  an  awful 
storm,  and  buffeted  by  the  elements  that  seemed  striving 
to  force  me  back  from  my  fate.  1  thought  nothing  of  that. 
The  tedious  voyage  was  over.  The  land  which  he 
governed  hove  in  sight.  In  a  day — in  an  hour — it  was 
possible  to  see  him.  The  thought  filled  me  with  wild  im 
patience.  For  the  universe  I  could  not  have  remained  on 
board  that  ship  one  half-hour  after  she  cast  her  anchor. 

"The  captain  and  crew  expostulated  with  me,  but  it 
was  impossible  to  heed  their  reasonings  with  the  shore  in 
sight.  Careless  of  danger  and  with  my  heart  fairly  singing 
with  secret  hopes,  I  descended  into  that  boat,  with  the 
waves  leaping  and  roaring  around  it.  I  had  no  fear,  after 
suffering  so  much  ;  it  seemed  impossible  to  die  within 
reach  of  him.  You  know  the  rest :  it  was  your  hand  that 
dragged  me  from  the  breakers,  yours  and  Norman's. 

"  God  sent  you  to  the  shore  that  day,  Samuel  Parris. 
I  felt  it  then,  I  feel  it  now.  Had  the  waves  swallowed 
me  I  should  have  died  with  a  sweet  hope  in  my  heart,  and 
the  struggle  would  have  been  hard.  But  now  that  all  ia 
lost — nay.  nay,  I  shudder  yet !" 


418  THE     LAST    WISH. 


CHAPTER   LIT. 

THE     LAST     WISH. 

"  I  AWOKE  in  sight  of  the  spot  where  we  had  first  met,  in 
hearing  of  the  waves  that  had  borne  us,  twenty-two  years 
before,  a  happy  pair,  across  the  ocean.  All  the  dear, 
old  memories  came  back  to  me  then — the  night  when 
we  rode  through  the  forest  to  your  dwelling,  and  were 
sacredly  wedded  under  its  roof — the  secrecy,  the  doubt,  the 
happiness,  and  the  love  unutterable  which  bound  me,  the 
daughter  of  a  proud  earldom,  to  the  fate  of  a  being  ren 
dered  greater  still  by  the  energies  and  strength  which 
make  the  nobility  of  manhood. 

"  Full  of  these  thoughts,  rich  iu  the  holy  love  that  runs 
like  a  golden  thread  from  time  into  eternity,  I  waited  in 
that  old  farm-house,  to  which  exhaustion  confined  me,  for 
the  hour  when  I  could  tell  my  husband  all  that  I  had 
suffered — all  that  I  had  hoped,  since  the  pride  of  my 
father  forced  us  asunder.  But  while  I  was  resting  in  the 
sweet  hush  of  a  new  hope,  with  the  sound  of  the  far-off 
waters  reaching  me  like  a  perpetual  promise,  content  with 
the  dear  certainty  that  he  was  close  at  hand,  a  cruel  blow 
was  preparing  for  me.  I  was  resting  in  peace,  with  a 
new  life  before  me,  and  sweet  hopes  singing  at  my  heart, 
when  a  lady  came  to  my  presence,  a  fair  woman,  whose 
smiles  made  my  heart  ache  under  their  sweet  welcome. 
She  came  with  offers  of  hospitality  and  cordial  good-wij 
—came  in  the  plenitude  of  her  rich  happiness  to  invite  the 
storm-tossed  stranger  to  share  the  luxuries  of  her  home — 


THE     LAST     \V  !  3  H .  4:19 

to  share  the  society  and  protection  of  her  husband,  Sir 
William  Phipps,  Governor  of  Massachusetts  ! 

"I  fainted  at  the  lady's  feet,  but  kept  my  secret  safe. 
She  left  me  smitten  to  the  soul  with  a  great  blow,  for 
which  I  was  utterly  unprepared.  Old  man,  you  would 
pity  me  could  you  guess  at  the  anguish,  tfre  terrible, 
terrible  desolation  that  followed  this  interview  with  my 
husband's  second  wife  !" 

"  Oh,  me  !"  said  Samuel  Parris,  dropping  the  hands 
that  had  covered  his  face — "  oh,  me  !  I  do  pity  you. 
And  it  was  I  that  married  you  both — he,  so  noble,  so 
grand  of  character — you,  so  bright  and  good.  God  have 
mercy  upon  us  !" 

"At  last,"  continued  Barbara,  "my  decision  was  made. 
I  could  not  force  myself  to  wrest  happiness  from  others, 
or  build  my  home  on  the  ruins  of  an  honorable  household. 
I  would  return  to  my  native  land,  and  tread  the  ashen 
desert  of  life  which  must  yet  be  mine,  for  I  was  strong, 
and  could  not  die.  Utterly,  utterly  wretched,  for  his  sake 
and  hers  I  would  take  up  this  penance  of  life,  and  endure 
its  loneliness  silently  to  the  end.  But  I  could  not  bring 
myself  to  this  all  at  once.  There  came  moments  when 
my  soul  rose  up  in  arms  for  its  rights,  and  the  love  of  my 
youth  grew  mighty  in  its  own  behalf:  but  it  is  easier  to 
suffer  than  inflict  suffering,  better  to  endure  than  avenge. 
I  resolved  to  see  my  husband,  and  after  that  decide. 

"I  went  to  the  North  Church,  where  he  stood  by  its 
altar  in  the  pride  of  his  state  and  the  humility  of  his  faith, 
and  was  baptized  for  another  life.  Then  it  was,  Samuel 
Parris,  that  a  i-esolve  of  perfect  self-abnegation  possessed 
me — then  it  was  that  I  almost  wrested  the  consecrated 
wine  from  your  hands,  and  made  a  vow  which  I  have 
kept  even  unto  death — a  vow  to  remain  dead  to  the  ruaa 


420  THE     LAST     WISH. 

who  had  been  my  husband,  to  leave  him  forever,  ai.d  go 
away  into  utter  loneliness. 

"  But  I  could  not  remain  dumb  within  reach  of  his 
presence — I  could  not  see  him  in  domestic  converse  with 
another  without  such  anguish  as  makes  the  breath  \ve 
draw  a  toTture.  For  one  instant  he — mistaking  me  for 
her — held  me  to  his  heart.  Oh,  my  God,  I  had  need  of 
thy  help  then  !  My  resolve  grew  faint ;  but  that  insensi 
bility  came,  I  should  have  betrayed  myself.  iStung  with 
agony,  wounded  to  the  soul,  I  fled  from  him — fled  through 
the  wilderness  to  your  dwelling ;  and  there — oh  !  my 
God  !  help  to  do  away  the  evil — there  the  mystery  spread 
from  my  own  heart  through  your  household.  You  had 
seen  without  recognizing  me,  and  I  supposed  myself  safe 
till  a  ship  should  come.  But  the  instincts  of  memory 
filled  you  with  unrest,  and  you  mistook  them  for  super 
natural  influences;  your  child  grew  wild  with  wounded 
love.  So  my  suffering  bore  poisonous  fruits,  and  were 
tortured  into  proofs  of  witchcraft,  and  for  that  I  am 
to  die  ! 

"  My  friend,  is  it  a  subject  of  wonder  now  that  my  pres 
ence  thrilled  both  him  and  you  with  a  mysterious  in 
fluence  ?  Is  it  strange  that  shadowy  memories  haunted 
my  footsteps  wherever  they  turned  ?  Can  you  guess  how  I 
suffered,  how  terribh7  I  was  tempted  ?  And  for  all  this  1 
must  die  1" 

Samuel  Parris  started  to  his  feet;  his  eyes  were  wild, 
his  face  haggard. 

"  Die  !  die  !  And  is  self-sacrifice  like  this  rewarded  by 
murder?  Unhappy  lady,  sweet  martyr,  no.  I  will  follow 
the  governor ;  he  must  learn  the  truth  ;  yoi  shall  not 
die  !  In  this  case  magnanimity  is  suicide." 

Barbara  Stafford  laid  her  hand  OD  his  arm.     "  I  should 


THE     LAST     WISH.  421 

have  kept  all  this  a  secret,  and  died  unknown  and 
unregretted,  but  for  the  strange  intelligence  that  reached 
me  from  England  in  the  package  Norman  Lovel  just 
brought  to  my  prison.  Samuel  Parris,  1  am  a  mother  I 
My  son  did  not  perish,  as  they  made  me  believe.  They 
took  him  from  me,  in  my  delirium,  and  put  him  out  to 
nurse  near  London  under  a  false  name.  Afterwards  he 
was  placed  at  school,  and  in  his  youth  sent  to  America. 
For  three  years  he  has  been  under  the  roof  of  his  own 
father.  Not  two  hours  ago  he  knelt  here  at  my  feet  and 
bemoaned  my  fate.  After  the  cruel  work  of  to-morrow 
he  will  be  Earl  of  Sefton — before  that,  if  you  will  yield  to 
the  wish  of  a  woman  standing  close  to  her  grave,  he 
shall  become  the  husband  of  your  child.  It  was  for  this  I 
summoned  you — for  this  I  laid  bare  a  heart  that  meant  to 
carry  its  secret  to  the  grave.  Look  up,  my  good  friend, 
and  smile.  What  matters  it  that  a  few  years  are  taken 
from  either  of  our  lives  so  long  as  our  children  are  made 
the  happier  by  it  ?  Our  children — our  children  !  Oh,  my 
friend,  my  friend  !  it  is  of  no  use  deceiving  you.  I  should 
so  like  to  live,  that  he  might  know  that  I  am  his 
mother.  Pity  me  !  pity  me  !  You  have  been  a  parent 
for  years,  and  I  so  little  time.  Husband  and  son  both 
left  behind,  and  I  must  die  to-morrow  !  Oh,  it  is  hard  to 
bear !" 

Samuel  Parris  covered  his  face  with  both  hands,  and 
tears  streamed  over  his  withered  fingers.  "  Oh,  God  ! 
teach  me  how  to  act,"  he  prayed ;  "  help  me  to  save 
this  wronged  woman,  or  permit  thy  servant  to  depart 
with  her !" 

Barbara  drew  the  withered  hands  from  his  face,  and 
held  them  firmly.  "Nay,  do  not  weep,  old  friend;  pray 
earnestly,  however,  that  I  may  be  prepared  for  death— 


4-22  THE     LAST     WISH. 

life  is  impossible  !  I  was  weak  a  moment  since.  Forget 
it.  I  but  ask  strength  to  endure." 

"  But  thou  shalt  not  die.    He  can  save  thee — and  shall." 

"  But  how  ?" 

"  I  will  tell  him  the  truth  !" 

"Against  that  solemn  promise  ?" 

"It  was  ignorautly  given." 

"  Nay,"  she  said,  "  I  forbid  you  to  interfere  in  this.  I 
am  content  to  suffer  the  penalty  awarded  by  the  court. 
Others,  innocent  as  I,  have  suffered  death,  and  to  me 
sleep  will  be  sweet, -even  in  the  grave." 

But  Samuel  Parris  would  not  be  persuaded  :  he  put  her 
hands  away.  Now  Barbara  Stafford  stood  up  with  a 
gesture  of  command. 

"  Old  man,  you  are  a  minister  of  the  Most  High  :  tell 
nie  if  a  vow,  taken  with  the  sacred  wine  and  strengthened 
by  the  breaking  of  holy  bread,  can  be  put  aside  because 
death  stands  in  the  way  ?  This  vow  I  have  taken — never 
to  reveal  myself  to  William  Phipps,  never  to  claim  him  or 
recognize  him,  and  to  its  sanctity  you,  with  your  own 
hands,  administered.  In  the  name  of  the  Most  High 
God,  who  heard  us  both,  I  charge  silence  upon  you  now 
and  forever  !" 

The  old  man  groaned  aloud. 

"Be  comforted!  be  comforted,  my  friend!  t6-morrow 
terminates  the  poor  tragedy  of  a  life  which  has  had  but 
little  of  happiness  in  it.  When  I  am  gone  my  husband 
will  feel  the  shadow,  which  he  "Could  not  comprehend, 
lifted  from  his  path.  It  must  no  longer  darken  the  noble 
aims  of  bis  existence.  What  is  the  life  of  one  person  com 
pared  with  the  happiness  of  so  many  ?  Until  you  are 
assured  that  I  am  no  more,  William  Phipps  must  never 
guess  that  his  wife  lived  to  perish  for  bis  well-being. " 


THE     LAST     WISH.  423 

Parris  lifted  his  head,  and  gazed  upon  her  in  silent 
wonder.  To  his  imaginative  nature  there  was  a  grandeur 
in  this  resolve  which  bordered  on  the  marvellous. 

"  Woman,"  he  said,  at  last,  "  art  thou  tempting  me  to 
falsehood  ?  If  thou  diest  on  the  morrow,  while  there  is  a 
possibility  of  salvation,  I — even  Samuel  Parris — am  thy 
murderer." 

"  Not  so,  old  man.  The  law  has  convicted  me  of  a 
heinous  crime — sentenced  me  to  a  death  from  which  there 
is  no  escape,  save  by  the.  betrayal  of  a  secret  which  will 
heap  dishonor  and  misery  on  an  innocent  woman,  and  a 
man  whose  happiness  is  a  thousand  times  more  precious 
than  the  life  1  am  willing  to  give.  Were  it  otherwise, 
what  would  existence  be  to  one  who  has  lost  all  hope, 
save  that  which  seems  to  have  dawned  on  my  last  mo 
ments,  only  to  mock  them  ?  But  that  justice  might  be. 
secured  to  my  son,  I  had  gone  to  the  doom  which  awaits 
me  with  sealed  lips.  Remember  that  I  voluntarily  bound 
myself  to  secrecy  by  an  oath  taken  before  Almighty  God, 
who  can  alone  absolve  me  from  it.  Do  not,  therefore, 
attempt  to  decide  between  me  and  my  Maker.  I  will  not 
be  pardoned  at  the  cost  you  would  have  me  pay  for  life. 
Think  you  I  c6uld  hurl  him  from  the  profound  respect 
with  which  men  bold  him — or  her,  that  gentle,  happy 
woman,  from  her  place  in  his  home,  to  shame  and  unde 
served  reproach  ?  Xo,  no,  old  man.  Death  is  a  thousand 
times  sweeter  to  me  than  life  at  the  price  of  misery  like 
that.  Once  more  I  charge  you  keep  sacred  the  promise 
you  have  given." 

"I  will,  I  will,"  cried  the  old  man,  subdued  and  sad 
dened  by  the  solemn  eloquence  of  her  look  and  words. 
"  Deal  with  me  as  thou  wilt,  woman,  or  angel — I  know 


424  THE     LAST     WISH. 

not  which  to  call  thee — that  which  thou  hast  entrusted  to 
me  I  will  surely  keep  to  the  last." 

"Nay,  it  must  be  kept  always;  and  revealed  only  to 
William  Pbipps  and  my — own  son.  In  this  package  is 
full  evidence  of  Norman's  birth  and  parentage.  All  other 
heirs  are  dead,  and  none  are  left  to  dispute  his  rights  : 
simple  proofs  of  my  death  will  be  sufficient.  No  one  will 
ever  know  how  his  mother  perished,  or  connect  tie 
Countess  of  Sefton  with  Barbara  Stafford." 

Samuel  Parris  took  the  package  which  Barbara  held 
out,  and  thrust  it  into  his  bosom,  bowing  his  head  low  for 
answer  to  her  solemn  injunctions. 

"Now,"  continued  Barbara,  "  I  will  task  your  kindness 
once  more,  and  have  done.  My  friend,  while  there  is  yet 
time,  bring  your  daughter  hither,  with  my  son — the  young 
man  they  call  Norman  Lovel.  Before  I  go  they  must  be 
wedded,  else  some  new  trouble  may  arise  to  separate 
them." 

"  Even  as  thou  wishest  it  shall  be  done,"  answered  the 
old  man,  taking  his  hat  and  staff.  "  I  who  have  wrought 
so  much  evil  would  fain  make  atonement — so  far  as  a 
weak  mortal  can." 

Parris  went  to  the  door,  but  came  back  again,  struck 
with  a  sudden  objection. 

"  But  Sir  William  Phipps — the  young  man  being  his 
son — might  hereafter  blame  me  as  ambitious  for  my 
child,"  he  said. 

"Have  no  fear,"  answered  th>  lady.  "When  I  am 
dead,  he  will  thank  you  for  giving  me  this  one  gleam  of 
happiness.  Norman,  when  he  knows  that  it  was  his 
mother  who  blessed  him — and  he  must  learn  this  here 
after — will  look  on  his  young  wife  with  double  tenderness." 

"And  must  it  now  be  kept  secret  from  him  ?" 


THE     PRISON     WEDDING.  425 

"Even  so,  or  to-morrow  would  break  his  heart." 
The  old  man  went  out.  He  had  not  far  to  go,  for 
Elizabeth  had  accompanied  him  to  the  jail,  afraid  to  be 
separated  from  him  for  a  moment,  and  hoping,  poor  child, 
to  obtain  forgiveness  for  the  honest  evidence  she  had 
borne  against  the  unhappy  prisoner  before  the  death  hour. 
She  that  moment  sat  shivering  in  the  jailor's  room,  wait 
ing  to  be  summoned  into  Barbara's  dungeon.  Norman 
Lovel  was  by  her  side,  but  she  refused  to  be  comforted 
even  by  the  voice  of  her  lover,  who  would  not  leave  her 
till  the  minister  came.  Thus,  hand  in  hand,  they  were 
found  together  when  the  old  man  entered  the  room,  where 
they  sat ;  and  solemnly,  as  if  he  had  been  summoning 
them  to  a  funeral,  bade  them  follow  him. 


CHAPTER  LIII. 

THE     PRISON     WEDDING. 

THAT  was  a  gloom}',  almost  terrible  wedding.  There 
those  young  people  stood  waiting  for  the  ceremony,  pale 
as  death,  their  trembling  hands  linked  together,  shivering 
with  nervous  chills,  as  if  it  were  a  doom  of  judgment 
about  to  be  pronounced  upon  them,  rather  than  those 
sacred  words  which  should  make  love  immortal. 

When  she  entered  the  dungeon,  Elizabeth  had  cast  her 
self  at  Barbara's  feet,  and  meekly  begged  the  pardon  that 
young  heart  would  never  grant  itself.  All  the  doubt  and 
bitterness  which  had  blinded  her  so  long  were  swept  away. 


42.6  THE     PRISON     WEDDING 

The  trae-hearted  young  creature  would  have  found  cour 
age  to  die  in  the  place  of  her  victim,  and  think  that  too 
little  atonement  for  the  evil  she  had  done.  But,  alas  ! 
alas  !  the  power  of  restitution  is  not  always  vouchsafed 
to  our  crimes  or  our  mistakes  in  this  world.  The  inex 
orable  law  had  seized  upon  its  victim,  and  Elizabeth 
Farris  might  moan  her  life  away  in  unavailing  regret 
without  aiding  her,  or  arresting,  for  one  moment,  the 
doom  that  was  darkly  closing  around  her. 

"  Nay,"  said  Barbara,  lifting  the  wretched  girl  from  her 
feet  and  resting  that  beautiful  head  on  her  bosom ;  "  it  is 
not  your  fault  that  I  am  here,  simple  child  ;  destiny  wove 
its  own  cruel  links,  around  me.  Do  not  mourn  for  the 
harmless  part  assigned  to  you  in  the  tragedy  which  will 
close  to-morrow.  The  evidence  you  gave  was  true  in  all 
its  parts.  If  superstition  blinded  my  judges,  the  fault 
rests  with  them  only,  my  daughter." 

A  strange  thrill  connected  the  two  women  as  Barbara 
uttered  the  word  daughter.  Elizabeth  lifted  her  blue  eyes 
with  a  sudden  glow  of  pleasure,  and  the  prisoner  kissed 
her  twice  upon  the  white  forehead,  as  if  she  were  sealing 
that  young  heart  for  its  baptism  of  love. 

"  Norman,  come  hither,  and  take  your  wife  from  my 
arms,"  said  the  prisoner,  turning  her  face,  all  glowing 
with  generous  exaltation,  on  the  young  secretary.  "  I 
give  her  to  you.  Love  her — trust  her  ;  and  remember  on 
this  earth  God  has  no  more  precious  gift  for  any  man  than 
the  love  of  a  good  woman." 

Norman  Lovel  came  forward  and  took  Elizabeth  gently 
from  the  arms  that  supported  her. 

"  What  is  it  you  ask  of  us  ?"  he  said,  addressing 
Barbara  in  a  trembling  voice.  "  I,  for  one,  am  ready  for 
any  thing." 


THE     PRISON     WEDDING.  427 

"Nay,"  said  Barbara,  "  I  ask  but  that  your  happiness 
shall  be  assured  before  I  leave  you." 

The  young  man  shook  his  head. 

"  There  will  be  little  happiness  for  us  after  that,"  was 
his  sorrowful  answer ;  "  but  it  will  be  some  consolation  if 
we  can  mourn  together." 

"Norman,  you  love  this  girl  ?" 

"  Better  than  my  life — better  than  any  being  on  earth, 
save  one,  who,  living  or  dead,  will  ever  share  my  heart 
with  her." 

Tears  swelled  into  Barbara  Stafford's  voice  before  she 
could  answer. 

"  You  will  not  grudge  me  a  place  ir  his  memory  ?"  she 
said,  turning  to  Elizabeth. 

"  Oh  !  if  it  were  to  save  your  life,  I  would  give  him 
up  !  I  would — I  would  !"  sobbed  Elizabeth. 

"It  will  make  the  few  hours  left  to  me  almost  happy, 
if  you  become  his  wife  now,"  said  Barbara,  placing  her 
hand  on  the  little  book  which  lay  near  her. 

"  Elizabeth,  your  father  has  consented  that  it  shall  be 
even  as  I  wish.  Do  you  love  this  man  well  enough  to 
wed  him  in  the  gloom  of  a  prison  ?" 

"  Do  I  love  him  !  But  that  I  loved  him  so  madly  you 
would  never  have  been  in  this  strait,"  cried  the  girl. 

"  Then  let  it  be  as  I  wish,  dear  child.  Love  makes  its 
own  sunshine  even  in  a  dungeon.  Norman,  take  her 
hand.  Samuel  Parrie,  they  are  ready  " 

The  old  minister,  who  stood  leaning  against  the  wall, 
came  forward  silently,  took  the  two  hands  reached  out  to 
him  in  his  firm  clasp,  and  in  a  few,  deep,  solemn  words, 
made  Elizabeth  Parris  Norman  Lovel's  wife.  Just  as  the 
ceremony  was  completed  a  cloud  passed  over  the  sun, 
and  its  light,  filtering  dimly  through  the  iron  bars  which 


428  THE     PRISON     WEDDING. 

grated  the  window,  shed  a  weird  gloom  over  the  group 
of  persons  so  strangely  brought  together.  While  the 
newly-wedded  pair  stood  hand  in  hand,  pale  as  death, 
and  scarcely  daring  to  feel  happy,  Barbara  went  to  her 
pallet-bed,  and  took  a  leathern  case  from  beneath  the 
pillow.  This  she  unlocked  with  a  key  suspended  to  her 
neck,  and  opening  it  revealed  the  contents.  A  quantity 
of  bank  notes,  bills  of  exchange,  and  gold,  lay  in  one 
compartment ;  from  the  other  she  took  the  coronet  of 
diamonds,  which  had  been  mentioned  as  the  witch-crown 
at  her  trial,  and  placed  it  on  the  head  of  the  bride. 

"  It  is  my  gift  to  your  wife,  Norman,"  she  said,  address 
ing  the  young  man  with  subdued  tenderness.  "Before 
long  you  will  both  prize  it  for  something  more  than  its 
value.  Here  are  other  jewels  for  the  bosom  and  arms. 
My  sweet  child,  may  the  heart  which  beats  under  them 
prove  happier  far  than  their  poor  owner  has  been.  Some 
day  you  will  know  why  she  gives  them  to  you." 

Elizabeth  shrunk,  and  almost  cried  out  with  terror,  &s 
the  coronet  settled  down  upon  the  waves  of  her  hair,  for, 
spite  of  herself,  thrills  of  superstition  shook  her  disturbed 
nerves,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  prisoner  were  crowning 
her  with  coals  of  fire.  But  the  sweet  voice  of  Barbara 
Stafford  soothed  all  fear  away,  and  the  bride  received  this 
princely  gift  with  her  head  drooping  in  meek  thankfulness 
under  its  starry  crown. 

Lovel  was  astonished  and  bewildered.  As  he  turned 
to  gaze  upon  his  bride  the  suri"-broke  out,  and  streaming 
through  the  window  set  the  coronet  on  fire  with  rainbow 
hues.  "  Lady,  lady,  I  know  the  value  of  these  things. 
We  must  not  accept  them,"  he  exclaimed. 

"  What  will  they  be  worth  to  me  after  to-morrow  ?' 
answered  Barbara. 


THE     PRISON    WEDDING.  429 

"  But  would  you  have  us  profit  by  the  awful  crime 
which  your  enemies  will  perpetrate  ?"  he  persisted. 

"Hush!"  she  said;  "it  must  be  so.  The  gold  for 
yourself — the  jewels  for  your  wife.  I  will  not  be  disputed 
in  this." 

"  Oh,  lady !  I  shall  never  have  the  heart  to  wear 
them,"  said  Elizabeth  ;  "  they  burn  rny  temples  even  now.*' 

"  Yes,  child,  you  will  learn  to  wear  them  for  my  sake  ; 
and  because  I  loved  you — for  my  sake,  remember." 

"  Oh  !  this  kindness  is  breaking  my  heart !"  sobbed  the 
bride.  "  Only  reproach  me,  and  I  can  bear  it  better." 

"  Reproach  you  !  Come,  come,  we  will  lock  the  gems 
in  their  case  again,"  said  Barbara,  smoothing  Elizabeth's 
golden  tresses  with  her  hands,  as  she  took  off  the  coronet. 
"  They  do  seem  like  a  mockery  in  a  dungeon.  When  this 
dark  passage  of  our  lives  is  over,  they  will  not  seem  so 
out  of  place." 

As  she  spoke,  Barbara  locked  the  leathern  casket  again 
and,  taking  its  key  from  her  neck,  gave  both  to  Samuel 
Parr  is. 

"  When  you  go  forth  take  them  with  you,"  she  said ; 
"but  they  must  not  be  otherwise  disposed  of." 

Parris  took  the  case  in  silence.  He  knew,  far  better 
than  the  others,  how  sacredly  these  young  people  would 
hold  her  wishes  hereafter. 

"Now,  my  child,  farewell!  We  must  not  see  each 
other  again  on  this  earth,"  said  the  prisoner,  kissing  Eliz 
abeth  on  the  forehead.  "  When  we  do  meet,  be  able  to 
look  in  my  face  and  say,  '  I  have  been  a  faithful  and 
good  wife  to  the  man  who  blessed  me  with  his  love.'  " 

Bathed  in  tears,  and  trembling  und'er  the  solemn  effect 
of  these  words,  Elizabeth  left  the  dungeon  with  her  fathor 
Lovel  remained  behind. 


430  THE     PRISON    WEDDING. 

When  they  were  alone,  Barbara  stood  before  her  son, 
Slowly  her  eyes  filled  with  the  intense  love  which  up  to 
that  moment  she  had  suppressed  in  her  heart.  She 
reached  forth  her  arms  and,  without  understanding  the 
power  of  natural  affection  that  urged  him  on,  Norman 
wound  his  arms  around  her  neck,  and  resting  her  head  on 
his  shoulder,  broke  into  a  passiou  of  grief  that  shook  his 
whole  frame.  She  trembled  in  his  arms,  not  with  sorrow, 
but  thrilled  with  a  joy  so  intense  that  it  lifted  her  into  a 
state  of  wonderful  exaltation. 

"  He  loves  me  completely,  with  more  than  filial  devo 
tion,  and  yet  knows  nothing  of  our  kinship — never  dreams 
that  I — even  I — am  his  mother,"  she  thought.  "After 
this  one  moment  I  should  of  a  truth  be  ready  to  die,  for 
the  bliss  of  a  lifetime  falls  upon  me  now." 

But  that  craving  affection  which  never  was,  and  never 
will  be,  fully  satisfied  in  a  loving  woman's  heart,  demanded 
an  assurance  of  this  feeling  in  words.  She  drew  her  head 
back,  and  looked  into  Norman's  face. 

"And  you  love  me  ?"  she  said,  passing  her  hand  over 
his  hair  in  an  unconscious  caress.  "  My  noble  boy,  you 
love  me  !" 

"  If  I  could  but  explain  how  much,  and  with  what 
pure,  pure  affection  !  Surely  the  Catholics  must  worship 
their  saints  as  I  worship  you.  My  love  for  you  is  made 
up  of  tenderness  and  prayer.  I  shall  never  kneel  to  my 
God  hereafter  without  feeling  that  you  are  near  him." 

"And  near  you,  also,  my — my  friend.  If  spirits  are 
ever  permitted  to  retrace  their  steps  in  the  eternal  prog 
ress,  no  grief  shall  eve'r  reach  you  that  I  will  not  be  near 
to  soothe." 

"  My  heart  will  feel  your  presence,  and  take  comfort 
from  it,  sweet  mother." 


THE    PRISON    WEDDING.  431 

"Mother  !  boy — boy  !    Why  did  you  call  me  mother  ?" 

"If  I  did  so,  the  word  escaped  my  lips  unconsciously. 
Forgive  it." 

"  Forgive  it — yes,  yes,  my  son,  I  can  forgive  it,  for  the 
word  has  a  sweet  sound." 

"You  called  me  son, "said  Norman,  gazing  on  her  with 
a  sad  smile. 

"  Did  I  ?  That  sprung  from  the  word  mother.  I 
would  gladly  hear  it  from  those  lips  again.  Norman,  I 
once  had  a  child — a  sweet  babe,  which  was  taken  from 
me  long  before  it  could  pronounce  the  word  mother,  and 
no  one,  even  by  accident,  ever  called  me  by  that  dear 
name  till  now. " 

"  Mother  !  mother  !"  repeated  the  young  man,  pausing 
on  each  word,  as  if  to  drink  in  its  hidden  music.  "  It  is 
very  strange,  but  ever  since  I  first  saw  you  that  word  has 
been  constantly  whispered  in  my  heart.  I  never  thought 
of  it  before,  save  as  a  sound  full  of  regrets.  To  me,  an 
orphan  from  the  first,  it  bad  no  other  meaning." 

"  But  now — now  you  love  it  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  now  it  has  depth  and  significance.  A  tender 
significance,  which  makes  my  heart  swell,  and  fills  my 
eyes  with  tears.  Lady,  I  am  glad  the  word  escaped  me, 
since  it  does  not  wound  or  offend  you,  for  it  has  unlocked 
my  heart.  I  could  rest  your  head  on  my  bosom  thus, 
and  weep  my  life  away  with  yours." 

"  Oh  !"  exclaimed  Barbara,  "  if  God  would  be  merciful, 
and  let  us  die  so." 

"  Or  permit  you  to  live.  How  beautiful  existence  would 
be  for  us  all !" 

Instantly,  the  holy  tenderness  that  had  trembled  on 
Barbara's  features   went  out  from   her  face.     Her  head 
rested  like  marble  on  the  young  man's  shoulders.     The 
2T 


432  THE    PRISON     WEDDING. 

thought  oi'  what  must  happen  to-morrow  broke  through 
her  exaltation,  and  froze  her  into  ice. 

"  Go,"  she  said,  in  a  husky  whisper.  "  Go  !  your  wifo 
is  waiting.  Take  her  out  of  this  place — from  the  town 
itself.  You  must  not  be  near  me  when  the  time  comes. 
I  shall  be  better  alone." 

"  Not  near  you  !"  exclaimed  the  young  man.  "  Though 
my  heart  break — and  I  feel  that  it  must — you  shall  not 
drive  me  from  your  side." 

"  But  it  will  take  away  my  strength.  I  shall  falter  at 
the  last  moment.  Boy,  can  you  not  see  how  weak  I  am  ?" 

Her  voice  broke  out  of  its  husky  whispers ;  she  shiv 
ered  from  head  to  foot,  and  held  out  her  shaking  hands 
that  he  might  clasp  them. 

Norman  folded  her  close  in  his  arms  till  the  trembling 
subsided.  Then  she  was  firm  again,  but  cold  as  stone. 

"Go,  now,"  she  said.  "Here  we  part  forever.  To 
morrow,  if  I  am  to  perish  as  a  Christian  woman,  with  the 
example  of  our  blessed  Saviour  before  me,  I  must  meet 
the  agonies  of  death  alone.  With  you  standing  near  me, 
my  friend,  it  would  be  to  die  twice.  Nay,  take  your 
arms  from  around  me.  I  am  stronger  standing  alone. 
But — but  your  hand  still ;  let  me  hold  that  to  the  last." 

"  Oh,  that  it  had  the  power  to  lead  you  from  this 
horrible  place  !" 

"  Hush!  hush  !  we  must  not  think  of  that.  Farewell ! 
farewell  1" 

The  laet  words  were  spoken  on  whispers,  that  came  like 
a  breath  of  frosted  air  from  her  lips. 

"  Farewell !"  cried  the  young  man,  wringing  her  cold 
band.  "  My  God  !  my  God  !  this  is  indeed  like  parting 
with  a  mother." 

Norman  moved  toward  the  door,  and  struck  its  oaken 


THE    PRISON     WEDDING.  433 

planks  blindly  with  his  hand,  thus  summoning  the  turn 
key.  Barbara  followed  him  a  single  step,  her  blue  eyes 
strained  with  anguish,  her  lips  moving  like  snow  stirred 
by  the  wind. 

A  key  turned  in  its  lock ;  a  heavy  bolt  was  drawn. 
The  door  slowly  opened.  Then  her  voice  broke  out  in  a 
sharp  cry. 

"  Norman  1" 

The  young  man  turned  and  received  her  in  his  arms. 
She  laid  her  hand  faintly  on  his  shoulder  again. 

"  My — my  friend,  kiss  me  before  I  die." 

Norman  pressed  his  lips  upon  her  forehead.  She  drew 
a  deep  breath,  the  pallor  of  her  face  broke  away,  leaving 
it  calm  and  still.  She  sunk  from  his  arms  to  the  floor, 
and  he  left  her  kneeling  there,  so  close  to  her  God  that 
she  did  not  know  when  he  left  the  dungeon. 

Norman  Lovel  found  his  bride  and  her  father  waiting 
for  him  in  an  ante-room  of  the  prison. 

Samuel  Parris  had  resumed  all  his  vigor  of  mind. 
When  a  duty  was  to  be  performed  he  was  prompt  and 
energetic  enough. 

"  Young  man,"  he  said  to  Norman,  when  the  poor 
fellow  came  in,  white  and  haggard  with  suffering,  "  we 
have  not  a  moment  to  spare.  Leave  this  child  to  me  ; 
but  that  I  am  old  and  feeble,  the  duty  of  saving  the  grand 
woman  in  yonder  should  be  mine.  But  on  an  errand  like 
this,  strength  and  endurance  are  wanted.  Go  to  the 
governor's  stable,  mount  his  fleetest  horse,  and  hie  thee 
with  full  speed  on  the  road  to  Providence.  Sir  William 
is  heavy-hearted,  and  perchance  may  stop  on  the  way, 
but  pause  not  to  eat  or  draw  breath  till  he  is  found. 
Then  say  to  him — 'Thy  old  friend,  Samuel  Parris,  hav 
ing  the  fear  of  God  before  his  eyes,  desires  thee  to  come 


434  THE     ICE     COVE. 

back  at  on?e  to  Boston,  that  a  great  crime  and  a  terrible 
murder  may  be  prevented.  Say  to  him  that  the  woman 
condemned  to  die  on  the  morrow  has  privately  confessed 
every  thing;  setting  forth  her  own  innocence,  and  the 
wrong  that  has  been  done  her.  Tell  him  to  trust  in  the 
faith  of  an  old  man  who,  like  Paul,  has  had  his  eyes  un 
sealed  in  the  very  midst  of  his  blind  persecutions,  and 
come  back  to  save  the  innocent.  If  he  hesitates,  or 
falters,  tell  him  that  it  is  to  save  his  own  soul  from 
eternal  remorse  that  I  command  him  to  retrace  his  steps." 

Norman  listened  eagerly.  "  Is  there  hope  in  this  ?" 
he  asked. 

"  Hope  for  us  all.     Life  for  her  I"  was  the  answer. 

Norman  snatched  Elizabeth  to  his  bosom,  and  sprang 
to  the  door. 

"I  will  reach  him.  Be  sure  I  will  reach  him, "he  cried, 
almost  with  a  shout  of  triumph  :  and  he  dashed  away  on 
what  was  in  truth  an  errand  of  life  and  death. 


CHAPTER   LIV. 

THE   ICE   COVE 

IN  the  progress  of  generatfons,  much  that  was  wild 
and  beautiful  about  the  city  of  Boston  has  been  entirely 
obliterated.  Lovely  eminences  and  picturesque  ravines 
have  been  levelled  into  commonplace  wharves  and  streets. 
Streams,  that  crept  through  the  hills,  to  lose  their  crystal 
brightness  in  the  turbulent  waters  of  the  harbor,  have 


THE     ICE     COV«.  435 

-een  turned  aside,  or  literally  choked  up.  Bunker  Hill 
was  crowned  with  primeval  forest-trees  at  the  time  of 
our  story.  Dorchester  Heights  was  here  and  there  dotted 
with  a  clearing,  and  all  the  curving  line  of  the  shore, 
which  now  bristles,  like  a  dense  forest,  with  shipping,  was 
wild,  and  beautiful  in  its  wildness. 

There  was  one  lovely  spot  on  the  beach,  of  which  a 
perfect  view  could  only  be  obtained  from  the  harbor. 
Here,  a  forest  stream  of  some  depth  stole  softly  out  of 
the  woods,  concentrating  its  crystal  waves  in  a  little  bay, 
sheltered  by  overhanging  trees,  then  sweeping  into  the 
harbor,  where  it  mingled  with  the  waves  of  the  ocean,  and 
became,  like  them,  opal-tinted  under  the  broad  sunshine. 

This  cove  had  been  selected  for  the  place  of  Barbara 
Stafford's  execution.  Even  in  the  depth  of  winter  it  was 
not  wholly  devoid  of  beauty.  Its  surface,  clear  to  the 
edge  of  the  cove,  was  sheeted  with  ice,  as  yet  untouched 
by  a  human  foot,  and  pure  as  the  spring  from  which  that 
stream  took  its  source.  The  cove  was  crescent  shaped,  and 
locked  in  by  two  curving  promontories  dense  with  ever 
greens,  drooping  under  ten  thousand  garlands  of  snow. 
As  the  beach  curved  inward,  these  hemlocks  and  pines 
grew  thinner,  and  in  their  place  beech  trees,  maples,  and 
sturdy  oaks,  pencilled  their  naked  branches  against  the  sky, 
and  sent  forth  a  low,  chiming  music,  inexpressibly  mourn 
ful,  for  every  twig  and  fibre  was  encrusted  with  frozen 
rain,  and  struck  together  with  a  sort  of  rythm.  Here 
and  there,  along  the  margin  of  the  shore,  logs,  covered 
with  fleeces  of  rich  green  moss,  thrust  themselves  out 
from  the  snow,  and  clusters  of  laurel  broke  its  white 
surface  with  the  brilliant  greenness  of  their  leaves. 

Little  preparation  had  been  deemed  necessary  for  the 
cruel  work  which  was  to  render  that  lovely  spot  a  place 


436  THE     ICE     COVE. 

of  horror.  A  cart  path  had  been  widened  through  the 
woods,  that  the  troop  of  soldiers  which  were  to  guard  tho 
unhappy  woman  from  her  prison  might  pass  easily  for 
ward  with  their  victim ;  and  where  the  ice  grew  thin,  as 
it  approached  the  restless  waves  of  the  ocean,  some  planks 
had  been  laid  down,  that  the  guard  might  be  in  no  danger 
of  sharing  the  fate  assigned  to  that  helpless  woman. 
Samuel  Parris  bad  pleaded  with  the  sheriff,  who  pos 
sessed  some  discretion  in  the  matter,  and  obtained  the 
latest  hour  possible  for  the  execution.  But  those  winter 
days  were  short,  and  people  came  from  a  great  distance 
to  see  a  fellow-creature  murdered  in  the  face  of  high 
heaven,  so  four  o'clock  was  the  latest  moment  that  the 
sheriff  could  be  prevailed  upon  to  name. 

At  twelve  the  whole  shore  far  back  into  the  woods  was 
lined  with  human  beings,  though  the  day  was  unusually 
cold,  and  the  wind  moaned  through  the  forest,  and  shook 
the  icy  tree-boughs  with  a  sound  which  seemed  like  the 
whispers  of  weird  spirits.  As  the  time  wore  on,  this  crowd 
deepened,  and  grew  blacker.  The  snow  crust,  even  into 
the  woods,  was  trampled  down.  Some,  more  eager  than 
the  rest,  moved  forward  on  to  the  ice,  while  little  boys 
and  men.  more  reckless  than  their  fellows,  climbed  the 
trees,  sending  showers  of  shivered  crystals  upon  the  throng 
below.  As  usual  in  such  crowds,  many  Indians  were 
seen  huddled  close  in  their  blankets,  waiting  with  stolid 
patience  for  the  death-scene  to  commence.  On  one  of  tho 
crescent-like  promontories  which  formed  the  cove,  a  large 
number  of  these  savages  had  gathered,  and  stood  under 
the  sheltering  hemlocks,  looking  on.  Near  them,  and  yet 
apart,  was  a  young  girl  of  remarkable  beauty,  with  an 
eagle's  plume  in  her  small  felt  hat,  which  but  half  con 
cealed  the  abundance  of  her  hair,  which  was  of  that 


THE     ICE     COVE.  437 

bluish  black  seldom  found  disconnected  with  the  highest 
type  of  a  peculiar  kind  of  beauty.  If  the  Indians  near 
her  seemed  indifferent,  she  was  keen  and  vigilant  enough. 
Wrapped  in  a  foreign  shawl  glowing  with  rich  colors,  she 
stood  leaning  against  a  young  tree,  attentive  to  every 
thing  that  passed.  Once  a  young  man  came  softly  up 
behind  her,  and  spoke  in  a  whisper — 

"Mahaska!" 

The  girl  started,  but  did  not  turn  or  seem  to  notice  that 
any  one  was  behind  her.  She  only  answered  : 

"I  hear,  Metacomet.     Speak  on." 

"  I  have  been  three  times  to  her  prison,  in  as  many 
disguises,  but  they  will  not  let  me  in." 

"  Then  she  is  unprepared  ?  All  attempts  to  warn  her 
have  failed  ?" 

"All  I     She  has  no  hope  that  a  friend  is  near." 

"  Then  we  have  but  to  act  with  more  courage  and 
caution,"  answered  the  girl. 

"  Mahaska  1" 

"Well,  Metacomet." 

"If  Moneto  has  need  of  me,  and  I  fall,  go  to  the  woods 
with  my  people  ;  be  their  prophetess  and  queen.  Do  not 
let  our  white  foes  drive  them  from  the  face  of  the  earth." 

"  I  will  live  with  them  or  die  for  them  !"  was  the  firm 
answer. 

Her  promise  received  no  rejoinder,  and  when  Abigail 
Williams  looked  around  to  learn  the  cause  of  this  silence, 
Metacomet  was  gone. 

It  was  now  close  upon  four  o'clock,  and  the  tramp  of 
men  marching  in  solid  masses  came  with  painful  distinct 
ness  from  the  woods.  Still  it  was  some  time  before  the 
awful  cortege  appeared,  and  Abigail  Williams,  who  was 
sea/ching  both  the  forest  and  the  ocean  with  keen  glances, 


438  THE     ICE     COVE. 

saw  that  a  ship  had  drifted  down  the  harbor,  and  lay  at 
no  great  distance  from  the  cove,  as  if  its  crew  were 
anxious  to  witness  the  execution.  This  seemed  a  hazard 
ous  undertaking,  for  there  had  been  a  storm  the  day 
before,  and  the  waves  swelled  heavily  shoreward. 

But  that  awful  sound  from  the  forest  came  louder  and 
nearer.  Along  the  cart  path,  plainly  visible  now,  appeared 
file  after  file  of  armed  men,  and  in  their  midst  that  woman, 
clad  in  a  voluminous  robe  of  black  silk,  with  a  lace  scarf, 
wrapped  turban-wise,  on  her  head.  Her  pale  hands  were 
folded  upon  her  bosom,  and  tied  there  as  men  bind  felons. 

Those  who  have  seen  Guide's  picture  of  Beatrice  Cenci 
can  have  some  idea  of  the  face  that  snowy  lace  and  black 
robe  but  served  to  render  more  deathly  pale — a  face  so 
eloquent  of  hopeless  sorrow,  that  those  who  came  to 
gloat  upon  the  woman's  agony  grew  heavy-hearted  as  they 
looked  upon  her. 

Thus  Barbara  Stafford  was  brought  through  the  dense 
multitude  of  men,  women,  and  even  little  children,  who 
surged  up  from  the  forest,  and  out  upon  the  ice,  jostling 
each  other,  wrangling  for  every  foot  of  space,  eager  as 
hounds  for  the  hunted  deer,  and  only  kept  from  laying 
hands  on  the  prisoner  by  the  soldiers,  who  forced  them 
back  with  charged  bayonets. 

At  last  they  brought  the  unhappy  woman  out  upon  the 
ice,  beyond  the  line  of  soldiers ;  outside  of  which  no  one 
was  allowed  to  pass.  Then  a  picture  was  formed,  full  of 
solemn  grandeur,  and  inexpressibly  mournful.  Behind, 
was  the  forest,  stretching  drearily  fnto  the  distance,  while 
its  margin  swarmed  blackly  with  human  life,  jostling, 
heaving,  crowding  the  shore  and  the  ice,  till  forced  back 
by  that  line  of  glittering  bayonets. 

Before  them  was  a  lake  of  crystal,  stretching  into  turbu- 


THE    ICE     COVE.  439 

lent  waters  of  the  harbor.  In  the  near  distance,  riding 
the  swell  of  incoming  waves,  lay  the  ship  with  its  anchor 
up,  and  its  sails  unfurling  one  by  one,  as  it  would  seem, 
without  human  aid.  Beyond  all  this  bent  the  horizon 
with  the  wintry  sun  slanting  toward  it  in  gleams  of 
amber-tinted  flame,  while  great  ocean  waves,  heaving  in 
from  the  chase  of  a  spent  storm,  rushed  shoreward,  and 
hurled  themselves  against  the  ice,  which  trembled  and 
bent  under  each  shock. 

This  was  the  picture  revealed  on  that  winter's  day. 
Snow  upon  the  earth — cold  sunshine  in  the  skies — bright 
ness  and  death  ;  funereal  stillness  in  the  crowd,  and  the 
cold  winds  wailing  over  all.  In  the  midst — midway  be 
tween  the  ocean  and  the  forest — that  woman  stood  alone, 
waiting  for  death.  The  soldiers  had  unbound  her  hands — 
for  that  little  chance  of  life  was  to  be  granted  her.  Still 
she  kept  them  folded  on  her  bosom,  and  stood  motionless  ; 
her  eyes  strained  wide  with  terror,  fixed  on  the  great 
waves  that  came  heaving  toward  her,  and  her  white  lips 
apart,  as  if  some  cry  of  agony  bad  torn  them  asunder 
never  to  be  closed  again. 

Two  men,  wearing  tall,  conical  hats,  and  with  pistols 
in  their  leathern  belts,  came  softly  up  behind  her,  seized 
both  her  arms,  and  attempted  to  drag  her  forward.  She 
gave  a  sharp  cry,  and  held  back,  resisting  them.  The 
waves  were  even  then  heaving  up  the  ice  beneath  her 
feet.  Before  her  was  a  yawning  hollow  of  greenish  water, 
scooped  out  like  a  monstrous  grave,  into  which  those  men 
were  attempting  to  hurl  her  headlong.  She  broke  from 
them  and  turned  to  flee — turned  upon  a  double  line  of 
soldiers  with  bayonets  levelled  against  her.  These  iron- 
nearted  men  grasped  her  again,  and  dragged  her  to 
the  verge  of  the  ice.  Then,  above  all  this  horror,  her 


440  THE     ICE     COVE. 

gentle  nature  and  womanly  pride  rose  against  their  rude 
handling. 

"  Let  me  go  alone,"  she  implored  ;  "  I  will  not  falter." 

The  guard  knew  that  there  was  no  chance  of  escape  ; 
and  perhaps  even  their  cruel  natures  shrank  from  hurling 
that  noble  creature  so  rudely  to  death.  After  a  moment's 
pause  they  released  her  arms,  and  fell  back. 

Slowly  and  firmly  she  walked  forward.  The  ice  cracked 
under  her  feet,  sending  out  bright,  silvery  lines,  with  each 
tread.  Then  it  swelled  upward  with  a  sudden  heave, 
broke,  and  with  one  plunge  hurled  her  into  the  vortex  of 
a  wave  that  leaped  upon  her  like  a  wild  beast,  and  carried 
her  off. 

All  this  had  been  so  sudden  that  the  multitude  could 
hardly  believe  that  she  was  gone.  Some,  who  had  been 
near  enough  to  look  upon  her  face,  wept,  and  crowded 
back,  shrinking  at  the  very  last  from  a  sight  they  had 
courted  an  hour  before.  Others  grumbled  that  the  agony 
of  the  scene  had  been  so  brief;  and  some  cursed  the 
witch  aloud,  hoping  that  the  waves  would  toss  her  well 
before  she  died.  These  hard-hearted  ones  seemed  for  a 
time  to  have  their  wish,  for  when  the  disturbed  waters 
swelled  back,  the  fragment  of  ice  on  which  the  wretched 
woman  had  fallen  was  hurled  out  to  sea.  Her  face  was 
turned  upward  to  the  sunshine,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
unseen  spirits  were  guiding  her  frail  support. 

"  Look  !  look  how  the  witch  floats  !"  shouted  the  crowd. 
"  Devils  are  holding  her  up  ;  you.  can  see  them  buffet  the 
water." 

Sure  enough,  two  dark  objects  rose  on  each  side  of 
the  woman,  and  seemed  to  be  guiding  her  frail  support 
through  the  turbulent  waves. 

"  Shoot !  shoot !     Has  any  one  a  silver  ball  ?  else  the 


THE     ICE     CO^E.  441 

witch  will  escape  !"  cried  a  voice  from  the  crowd.  But 
the  soldiers,  appalled  by  what  they  believed  to  be  the 
close  presence  of  the  evil  one,  stood  dumb  and  motionless. 

While  the  general  attention  was  fixed  upon  this  one 
object,  a  boat  shot  out  from  the  right  hand  promontory, 
rowed  by  six  men,  and,  struggling  fiercely  against  the 
waves,  moved  toward  the  fragment  of  ice  to  which  the 
woman  was  clinging. 

"  Look  !  look  !  A  boat  rowed  by  Indians  !  The  red 
devils  will  save  her  !  Fire  upon  them — fire  on  her  !" 

A  dozen  guns  were  uplifted.  The  click  of  their  pon 
derous  locks  sounded  fearfully  distinct,  for  a  deadly  still 
ness  had  fallen  on  the  multitude.  But  on  the  moment 
a  tumult  arose  in  the  crowd,  from  which  the  Indians 
had  cautiously  separated  themselves.  With  the  leap  of 
panthers  they  sprung  upon  the  soldiers,  and  failing  to 
wrench  the  muskets  from  their  hands,  flung  them  head 
long  to  the  ice.  Then  making  a  sudden  dash  through  the 
crowd  the  savages  plunged  into  the  forest,  leaving  wild 
commotion  behind.  While  the  tumult  raged  fiercest,  half 
a  dozen  guns  went  off  at  random,  and  others  were  fired 
blindly  as  the  soldiers  scrambled  up  from  the  ice.  But 
they  failed  to  reach  the  boat,  which  moved  steadily  toward 
the  mass  of  black  drapery,  now  visible,  now  submerged  in 
the  water.  An  almost  superhuman  sweep  of  the  oars 
brought  that  toiling  craft  close  to  the  wretched  woman, 
who  clung,  cold  and  senseless,  to  that  crumbling  fragment 
of  ice.  While  the  boat  rocked  like  an  egg-shell  on  the 
waves,  the  tall  figure  of  a  man  rose  upright  among  the 
oarsmen,  made  a  desperate  leap  into  the  water,  and  tore 
that  deathly  form  from  its  hold  on  the  ice.  Aided  by  the 
two  Indians  who  had  swam  from  their  covert  under  the 
sheeted  ice,  and  bravely  kept  the  fragment  which  bore 


442  THE     ICE     COVE. 

Barbara  Stafford  from  submerging,  he  lifted  her  to  the 
strong  arms  stretched  down  to  help  him,  and  clambered 
into  the  boat.  There,  upon  a  pile  of  blankets,  she  lay, 
white  as  snow,  and  cold  as  the  ice  that  clung  to  her  wet 
garments.  The  young  man  stooped  to  make  sure  that 
she  was  not  quite  dead,  when  a  bullet  hurtled  out  from 
the  shore  and  struck  him  ia  the  side.  A  wild  leap  in  the 
air — a  cry,  sharp  and  clear  as  the  yell  of  a  wounded  eagle, 
and  Metacomet  fell,  bathed  in  blood,  by  the  woman  he  had 
served  so  faithfully. 

Now  the  tumult  on  the  shore  raged  with  fearful  vehe 
mence.  Shouts  and  shrieks  of  cruel  triumph  swept  over 
the  waters.  A  boat  was  pushed  across  the  ice,  and  shot 
out  into  the  harbor,  giving  chase  to  the  fugitives.  The 
dying  chief  lifted  himself  up  and  saw  this  new  danger. 
He  struggled  for  speech,  but  fell  back  gasping  for  breath. 
Wahpee  dropped  his  oar  and  attempted  to  staunch  the 
blood  which  flowed  in  a  crimson  stream  down  his  side. 

"  Let  me  die — but  save  her  I"  shouted  the  young  man, 
in  his  last  agony.  "  Pull  for  the  ship — or  never  dare  to 
look  for  your  chief  up  yonder  !" 

The  savage  sprang  to  his  oar — and  now  the  strength 
of  fifty  men  seemed  urging  the  boat  forward.  It  fairly 
leaped  through  the  water.  Panting  for  breath,  strain 
ing  those  sinewy  arms  till  the  muscles  stood  out  like 
whip-cords,  the  savages  bent  to  their  desperate  work,  and 
by  main  ^-rength  distanced  their  pursuers.  The  ship's 
crew  gathered  on  the  deck  watched  this  pursuit,  and 
stood  ready  to  aid  the  fugitives.  A  rope  ladder  was  flung 
over  the  side  of  the  vessel.  Up  its  knotted  cordage  the 
savages  toiled,  carrying  the  rescued  woman  with  them. 
They  laid  her  on  the  deck,  leaped  like  wild  deer  into  the 
boat  again,  and  pulled  for  the  promontory  they  had  left. 


THE     ICE     COVE.  443 

The  good  ship,  hired  to  do  this  merciful  work  by  the 
last  gold  Metacomet  possessed,  was  ready,  with  b&r 
anchor  up,  and  with  her  sails  all  set.  As  the  savages 
leaped  down  her  side,  she  bore  or*  her  way,  almost  sink 
ing  the  boatful  of  armed  men  that  had  daringly  crossed 
her  bows.  In  a  desperate  effort  to  save  themselves  these 
men  allowed  the  craft,  in  which  the  dying  chief  lay,  to 
gain  a  safe  distance,  and  approach  the  promontory.  But 
now  a  storm  of  bullets  swept  over  it  from  the  shore. 
Two  of  the  oarsmen  fell  headlong  to  the  water ;  another 
lay  upon  his  face  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  Still  the 
little  craft  cut  its  way  through  all  danger. 

Abigail  Williams  stood  on  a  strip  of  white  sand  at  the 
extreme  point  of  the  promontory.  Curving  around  the 
inner  crescent  of  the  bay,  the  soldiers  were  crowding  back 
from  the  ice  which  was  breaking  up  under  their  feet,  but 
with  their  guns  still  levelled,  and  their  bayonets  flashing 
like  tongues  of  flame  in  the  sunbeams  that  slanted  across 
them. 

When  the  fugitives  drew  near  the  promontory,  Abigail 
stood  directly  within  range  of  the  guns.  Metacomet  had 
lifted  himself  to  a  sitting  posture,  and  saw  her,  through  the 
blinding  agonies  of  death.  Then,  with  his  last  strength, 
he  pointed  her  out,  and,  speaking  to  a  chief  who  still  kept 
to  his  oar  unharmed,  cried  with  his  last  breath — 

"  She  is  my  sister — the  daughter  of  your  king ;  take 
her  to  the  forest.  Obey  her — pro — " 

He  broke  off.  A  shot  struck  the  chief  to  whom  he 
appealed.  Concentrating  all  the  life  that  was  in  him  in 
one  hoarse  shout  of  defiance,  which  filled  his  mouth  with 
blood,  the  son  of  King  Philip  fulfilled  the  destiny  of  his 
race,  and  fell  dead  upon  the  bodies  of  his  slain  friends. 

Cold  as  stone,  and  white  as  a  corpse,  Abigail  Williania 


444  THE     ICE     COVE. 

stood  upon  the  beach  -while  this  awful  scene  was  enacted, 
and  saw  her  brother  fall.  Again  the  soldiers  levelled 
their  guns  for  another  volley,  heedless  of  her  danger — 
heedless  of  every  thing.  Right  in  the  pathway  of  the 
bullets  levelled  at  the  boat,  she  stood.  They  flew  over 
her  head — they  fell  like  rain  in  the  water ;  and  at  last, 
one  more  merciful  than  the  rest,  pierced  her  through  the 
heart.  She  fell  without  a  moan,  just  as  the  savages, 
landing  under  a  shower  of  hurtling  lead,  carried  the  body 
of  their  chief  from  the  boat  in  open  defiance,  and  bore  him 
into  the  forest. 

While  the  shot  that  killed  that  unhappy  girl  was  still 
ringing  in  the  air,  two  horsemen  rode  fiercely  into  the 
crowd,  scattering  it  right  and  left,  till  their  horses  dashed 
out  in  bold  relief  on  the  ice  in  front  of  the  soldiers.  One 
was  a  gray-headed  old  man,  who  reeled  in  his  saddle,  and 
looked  wildly  from  the  soldiers  to  the  water  without  the 
power  to  utter  a  word.  The  other,  young  and  strong  of 
purpose  but  wild  with  apprehension,  called  out  in  a  voice 
so  full  of  horror  that  it  could  scarcely  be  heard  : 

"  Magistrates  and  soldiers !  where  is  the  woman  you 
came  here  to  murder  ?  I  bring  her  full  pardon,  signed 
by  our  governor,  Sir  William  Phipps." 

The  sheriff  came  close  to  Norman  Lovel's  horse.  "  It 
is  too  late  ;  she  has  gone." 

With  a  groan  that  left  his  white  lips  in  a  single  heave 
of  agony,  Samuel  Parris  dropped  from  his  horse.  He  had 
fainted  quite  away. 

"  Not  dead,  peradventure,  but  yonder  !"  cried  the  sheriff, 
pointing  to  the  vessel  which  was  still  clearly  visible.  "A 
party  of  Indians,  led  by  the  young  man  who  defended 
her  at  the  trial,  rescued  the  sorceress — stark  or  living ;  I 
cannot  affirm  which." 


THE     ICE     COVE.  445 

"And  she  is  gone  safe — she  is  in  that  ship  ?"  cried  the 
young  man,  starting  up  exultiugly  in  his  stirrups,  and 
gazing  after  the  vessel  with  a  great  outburst  of  thankful 
ness.  "  God  forever  bless  the  man  that  saved  her  !" 

"  The  pestilent  heathen  is  dead,  and  half  his  boat's 
crew  with  him,"  answered  the  sheriff,  with  a  grim  smile. 
"  We  gave  them  three  volleys.  See — their  boat  is  drifting 
this  way,  bottom  upwards,  riddled  through  and  through. 
They  got  off  to  the  forest  with  the  body  of  their  leader ; 
but  I  have  sent  a  company  after  them." 

"  Recall  that  company,  I  command  you,  on  the  authority 
of  Sir  William  Phipps  !  I  would  myself  stand  by  the 
body  of  this  young  man,  were  it  permitted,  and  do  him 
the  reverence  his  bravery  has  earned.  March  your  soldiers 
back  to  the  city,  good  master  sheriff;  they  are  no  longer 
wanted  here." 

The  sheriff  received  this  order  with  a  stiff  bow,  and 
turned  away  to  muster  his  men. 

Then  for  the  first  time  Lovel  discovered  that  Samuel 
Parris  was  lying  prone  upon  the  ice  insensible,  with  scat 
tered  locks  of  gray  hair  blown  across  his  face.  The  young 
man  got  down  from  his  saddle  at  once,  and  dropping  on 
one  knee  lifted  the  old  man  in  his  arms. 

"  Has  no  one  a  drop  of  brandy  ?"  he  inquired  in  great 
alarm.  "  See  how  cold  and  pale  he  is  !" 

A  flask  of  spirits  was  handed  over  his  shoulder  by  one 
of  the  by-standers.  Lovel  poured  some  of  its  contents  by 
force  into  those  cold  lips,  and  after  a  little  the  minister 
revived. 

"  Oh,  my  son,  God  is  against  us  !  She  is  dead  !  dead  !" 
murmured  the  old  man.  Great  tears  rose  and  swelled  in 
his  eyes,  choking  his  voice  ;  but  the  anguish  he  could  not 
speak  swept  over  his  face. 


446  THE     ICE     COVE. 

"  She  Ife  safe,  father ;  she  has  escaped  !  Lifi  your  eyes, 
and  they  can  yet  discern  the  ship  which  carries  her  out 
of  danger." 

"Art  thou  sure — quite  sure,  Norman  ?"  cried  the  old 
man,  clasping  his  hands  in  an  ecstasy  of  gratitude. 

"  Here  are  those  who  saw  her  borne  up  the  sides  of  the 
vessel." 

"Let  us  go  home,  my  son.  Elizabeth  will  be  sorely 
anxious,"  said  the  old  man,  struggling  to  his  feet.  "But 
you  avouch  for  this  ?  a  mistake  would  be  terrible." 

"  Yes,  yes.  Dear  lady  !  She  is  out  of  their  reach  at 
last,  and  I  much  fear  neither  you  nor  I  will  ever  see  her 
face  again." 

"  Nay,  nay  ;  but  I  have  great  need  of  rest  and  thought. 
Let  us  go  home." 

Norman  helped  the  old  man  to  his  saddle,  and  the  two 
rode  slowly  away,  following  the  soldiers.  When  the  sun 
went  down  that  night,  not  a  human  form  could  be  seen 
along  all  that  trampled  shore  save  one,  so  cold  ami  beau 
tiful,  that  but  for  the  garments  and  those  masses  of 
rich,  black  hair,  it  might  have  be«n  chiselled  from  parian 
marble.  Thus,  partly  on  the  sand,  partly  on  the  crusted 
snow,  all  that  was  left  of  that  unhappy  girl,  called  Abigail 
Williams,  lay,  till  the  sun  set  behind  those  naked  trees 
and  the  moon  arose.  Then  out  of  the  black  depths  of  the 
wilderness,  came  the  figure  of  an  old  woman,  toiling 
through  the  snow,  and  almost  bent  double.  She  sat  down 
by  the  lifeless  girl,  and  atteinpted_to  lift  her  head  ;  but  it 
resisted  her  hands,  and  fell  back  on  the  snow  like  marble. 
Then  poor  old  Tituba  stretched  out  her  withered  limbs 
by  the  side  of  her  dead  charge,  and  winding  her  arms 
around  that  cold  form  broke  into  a  funereal  chant,  so 
sad,  so  tbrillingly  mournful,  that  it  wailed  through  the 


CLOSING     SCENES.  447 

whispers  of  those  naked  tree-boughs  with  the  anguish  of  a 
soul  in  pain  Then  along  the  track  she  had  made  in  the 
snow  came  a  file  of  Indians,  whose  death-chant  swelled 
with  hers  into  a  wild,  fierce  music.  They  lifted  the 
young  girl  from  the  ground,  and  bore  her  away,  filling 
the  winter's  night  with  that  wierd  chant  as  they  went. 
Behind  them,  following  meekly  along  the  beaten  path, 
the  lone  Indian  woman  crept,  her  slow  footsteps  faltering 
with  age.  Still  her  feeble  voice  sent  forth  its  death-wail, 
and  thus  like  a  shadow  she  disappeared. 

In  a  hollow  lined  with  crusted  snow  and  overhung  with 
naked  forest-trees,  they  had  laid  the  young  chief  Meta- 
comet  upon  a  rude  bier  formed  of  evergreen  branches, 
with  the  foliage  fresh  upon  them.  By  his  side  they 
placed  the  sister  whose  life  had  been  broken  up  so  fatally 
by  his  kingly  ambition.  Then  these  savages,  chieftless 
and  wanderers  forever  more,  lifted  the  bier,  and  turned 
their  footsteps  toward  Mount  Hope,  where  the  brother 
and  sister  were  laid  in  one  grave,  the  last  of  a  kingly  and 
most  persecuted  race. 


CHAPTER  LY. 

CLOSING     SCENES. 

SAMUEL  PARRIS  kept  his  word  faithfully  ;  for  added  to 
his  own  promise  was  the  sacramental  oath  taken  by  Bar 
bara  Stafford,  which  he  dared  not  force  her  to  break. 
But  the  secret  confided  to  him  lay  heavily  on  his  con- 

28 


448  CLOSING     SCENES. 

science,  and  ths  struggle  there  wore  away  his  strength 
For  a  whole  year  he  avoided  his  old  friend  the  governor, 
and  refused  to  visit  his  house,  even  when  Elizabeth  be 
came  its  permanent  inmate  as  Norman  LovePs  wife.  But 
at  last  there  came  a  period  when  the  old  man  went  mourn 
fully  to  the  house  he  had  shunned.  This  time,  he  was 
summoned  there  to  attend,  not  a  wedding,  but  a  funeral — 
Lady  Phipps  had  laid  down  a  life  all  sunshine,  and  gone 
suddenly  into  the  valley  and  shadow  of  death.  When 
Samuel  Parris  rode  up  to  that  stately  mansion,  he  found 
its  pillars  draped  with  black,  and  a  hatchment  over  the 
front  entrance.  These  emblems  of  grief  struck  him  with 
singular  feelings  of  blended  grief  and  thankfulness.  His 
eyes  filled  with  tears  of  regret  for  the  gentle  woman  who 
had  gone  ;  but  his  heart  beat  free  once  more,  and  «* 
grievous  load  fell  from  it,  when  his  foot  passed  that  thresh 
old.  In  an  hour  after  his  arrival  at  the  mansion,  a 
funeral  cortege  went  forth  from  its  portals  which  sur 
passed  any  thing  known  to  the  colony  in  its  exceeding 
solemnity  and  worldly  grandeur.  In  the  procession, 
Samuel  Parris  rode  with  his  friend  ;  and,  for  the  first 
time  since  Barbara  Stafford's  escape,  the  two  men  sat 
hand  in  hand,  yielding  to  the  old  sympathy,  and  united 
by  the  old  love.  Both  mourned  the  dead  with  sincere 
grief;  but  it  was  observed  of  Samuel  Parris,  that  a  gentle 
hopefulness  had  settled  on  his  face,  and  there  was  some 
thing  in  his  voice,  when  he  prayed,  that  thrilled  the  hearer 
with  strange  accents  of  thanksgiving. 

When  the  coffin,  palled  with  black  velvet,  and  rich  with 
silver,  was  placed  before  the  altar  where  William  Phipps 
had  partaken  of  his  first  sacrament,  Parris  knelt  beside  it, 
in  violation  of  all  usage,  and  prayed,  for  some  moments, 
silently ;  but  as  if  he  were  in  absolute  communion  with 


CLOSING     SCENES.  449 

the  dead.  Then  he  arose,  like  one  reassured,  and  with 
benign  calmness  went  through  the  funeral  ceremonies. 

That  night  the  gubernatorial  mansion  was  indeed  a 
house  of  mourning.  Elizabeth,  clad  in  black  from  head  to 
foot,  glided  from  room  to  room,  like  a  troubled  spirit. 
Every  other  instant  tears  would  fill  her  beautiful  eyes, 
and  she  would  creep  close  to  Lovel's  side,  under  the  pre 
tence  of  comforting  him.  The  governor  spent  those  first 
sad  hours  in  his  own  room,  and  Samuel  Parris  sat  musing 
in  the  library.  He  thought  of  the  poor  lady  who  was 
gone — of  her  bright  cheerfulness,  her  beauty,  and  gracious 
manners.  All  her  life  she  had  been  the  favorite  of  for 
tune  and  of  circumstances.  But  Samuel  Parris  well 
knew  that  she  had  never  wholly  and  entirely  possessed 
the  heart  of  that  strong,  great  man,  whose  entire  nature 
was,  in  fact,  beyond  her  comprehension.  Affection,  care, 
indulgences,  he  had  given  her,  and  with  these  things  she 
was  content.  But  the  great  happiness  of  married  life — 
that  of  being  mated,  heart  and  intellect,  in  one  noble 
union — she  could  not  have  comprehended.  She  was  quite 
ready  to  worship  her  husband's  greatness,  without  under 
standing  it ;  but  blind  worship  satisfies  no  man  entirely. 
In  order  to  be  thoroughly  loved  he  must  be  under 
stood. 

Samuel  Parris  did  not  reason  in  this  way.  It  would 
have  seemed  cruel,  thus  coldly,  and  under  that  roof,  to 
analyze  the  life  that  had  just  passed  away ;  but  he  had  a 
solemn  duty  to  perform,  and  welcomed  such  thoughts  as 
promised  to  make  the  result  a  happy  one.  For  three  days 
the  minister  remained  the  guest  of  his  bereaved  friend. 
All  the  kind  relations  of  pupil  and  tutor  came  back  to 
them.  In  his  sincere  grief,  the  governor  loved  to  fall 
back  upon  that  highly  cultivated  and  generous  nature  for 


450  CLOSING     SCENES. 

sympathy  and  Christian  comfort,  and  both  were  given  him 
entirely. 

A  few  hours  before  that  appointed  for  his  return  home, 
the  oli  man  quietly  followed  Sir  William  into  his  library, 
and  closed  the  door. 

"  William,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  the  governor's 
arm,  "  William,  my  son,  sit  down  by  the  window  here ; 
I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

Sir  William  smiled  kindly  and  sat  down,  a  little  sur 
prised  by  the  old  man's  nervous  manner. 

"William,  thou  rememberest  that  night  when  thou 
earnest  to  my  house  with  that  young  girl  ?" 

"  Remember  !"  answered  Sir  William,  shrinking  visibly, 
as  if  some  heart-wound  had  been  touched.  "  Think  you, 
my  friend,  that  I  ever  forget  it  for  a  single  hour  ?  After 
the  terrible  grief  of  losing  her  I  am  prepared  for  any 
thing." 

"But  she  is  not  lost,  William  Phipps." 

Sir  William  started  up.  It  was  wonderful  to  see  that 
noble  form  so  agitated. 

"  Not  lost,  old  man  ?  I  am  no  longer  a  boy,  and  you 
see  how  thickly  gray  hairs  are  creeping  over  my  head ; 
but  I  cannot  bear  to  bear  her  mentioned.  I  know  that  in 
heaven  nothing  perishes  ;  but  this  earth  lost  all  its  bloom 
for  me  when  she  died.  Talk  of  something  else.  I  would 
not  have  the  old  grief  overwhelm  my  regret  for  the  sweet 
wife  we  buried  three  days  ago.  It  shakes  my  very  soul 
even  to  think  of  that  crowning  sorrow  of  my  youth.  Oh  ! 
Parris  ;  she  was  one  of  the  grandest,  most  generous,  and 
loving  creatures  that  ever  lived.  I  could  weep  like  a 
child  with  the  bare  memory  of  what  I  lost  and  suffered. 
I  can  say  this  to  you  now,  my  faithful  friend,  without 
injury  to  any  one.  What  a  life  mine  would  have  been, 


CLOSING     SCENES.  451 

had  she  lived  to  share  it  with  me.  Now  that  I  am  alone, 
these  thoughts  crowd  upon  me.  I  cannot  help  it,  force 
them  back  as  I  will." 

"But  I  say  unto  thee,  William  Phipps,  the  woman  to 
whom  I  married  thee  that  night  is  alive.  Thou  hast  seen 
her — held  her  in  thy  arms.  When  thy  hand  signed  the 
pardon  for  Barbara  Stafford,  it  saved  the  wife  of  thy 
youth  !" 

"  Barbara  Stafford  ?  Old  friend,  do  not  mock  me ;  I 
cannot  bear  it.  You  are  an  imaginative  man,  I  know, 
and  harbor  strange  fancies  ;  but  do  not  let  them  fire  a  hope 
in  me  which  after-truth  will  quench.  You  look  serious, 
and  wonderfully  calm  ;  notwithstanding,  1  think  you  are 
insane,  Samuel  Parris." 

"Nevertheless,  the  woman  who  was  tried,  condemned, 
and  would  have  suffered  for  sorcery,  but  for  the  interposi 
tion  of  friends  more  generous  than  we  were,  was  and  is 
thy  wife." 

"  Was  and  is  my  wife  ?     Are  you  mad,  or  am  I  ?" 

"William!  William!  look  up!  how  white  thou  art  I 
Let  me  wipe  the  drops  from  thy  forehead.  Nay,  nay  ; 
these  strong  hands  should  not  quiver  thus.  Let  them 
clasp  mine.  That  is  well  ;  now  look  into  these  eyes, 
William,  and  read  my  story  there.  As  the  Lord  liveth, 
and  as  I  am  his  servant,  the  wife  of  thy  youth  is  still 
living — still  loves  thee  as  woman  never  before  loved  man. 
Dost  thou  believe  me  ?" 

A  wonderful  expression  swept  the  strong  man's  face,  an 
ecstasy  of  hope  broke  into  his  eyes,  and  parted  his  lips 
with  such  smiles  as  no  human  being  had  seen  there  before. 

"  I  do  !  I  do  !  My  wife — my  fair  young  bride.  Why, 
Parris,  that  stern  man  parted  us  in  less  than  a  year. 


452  CLOSING     SCENES. 

Living!  loving!  and  I — are  these  tears,  Samuel  Parris  T 
Am  I  a  boy  again  ?" 

"  There,  there,  my  son  ;  drive  all  these  doubts  away ;  for 
this  life'has  joy  for  thee  yet,  and  for  her.  I  tell  thee,  my 
son,  thy  wife,  who  called  herself  Barbara  Stafford,  is  a 
mate  for  thee,  heart  and  soul,  or  for  any  man  living." 

"  My  love  I  my  wife  !  Now  I  understand  how  it  came 
about  that  this  heart  was  so  disturbed.  But  why  did  she 
keep  away  from  me  ?" 

"  The  father,  who  told  thee  that  thy  wife  was  dead, 
when  thou  soughtest  her,  practised  a  double  deception, 
and,  till  his  death,  she  believed  herself  a  widow." 

"  But  she  was  undeceived,  and  loved  me  still  ?"  cried 
Sir  William. 

"  She  came  to  this  country  in  search  of  her  husband, 
and  found  him  married  to  another." 

"  My  poor  wife !  That  was  terrible  !  I  understand  :  she 
would  not  claim  me  ;  but  was  ready  to  suffer  doubt,  con 
tumely,  death,  rather  than  harm  her  husband.  I  was  not 
faithless  to  her.  God  is  my  judge,  in  this  soul  I  was  not 
faithless.  She  knew  how  I  had  been  deceived  ?  She  did 
not  hate  me  ?" 

"  Hate  !  nay,  nay  ;  does  hate  ever  produce  actions  like 
hers  ?" 

Sir  William  Phipps  arose ;  his  eyes  bright,  his  face 
radiant.  Even  Samuel  Parris  gazed  on  him  in  wonder. 
Was  that  the  grave,  stern  man,  who  had  seemed  so  long 
incapable  of  a  strong  emotion  ?""- 

"  My  friend,  we  will  go  to  her.  Where  shall  we 
search  ?" 

"  She  is  in  England,  Sir  William  ;  one  of  the  first  ladies 
in  that  proud  land — a  countess  in  her  own  right — the 
possessor  of  great  wealth." 


CLOSING     SCENES. 

"  She  is  my  wife  I  that  is  all  I  ask  or  care,"  exclaimed 
Sir  William.  "  Old  friend,  a  ship  lies  in  the  harbor ; 
when  will  she  sail  ?" 

"  To-morrow.     I  went  forth  to  inquire  this  morning." 

"  I  will  send  at  once  and  bespeak  the  cabin.  You 
must  go  with  me." 

"Aye,  truly ;  but  there  is  something  else  which  thou 
must  hear  before  we  start.  Her  son  and  thine  is  under 
this  roof!" 

"Her  son  and  mine?  Is  it  my  wife  you  speak  of? 
That  fair  girl  who  loved  me  so  ?" 

"Even  her." 

"A  child,  and  I  never  knew  it !  Oh  1  Father  of  mercies ! 
this  makes  life  too  precious !  A  son  ?  Did  you  say  it 
was  a  son,  and  under  this  roof?  Not  the  young  man  I 
have  loved  so — not  Norman  Lovel  ?" 

"  Truly,  thy  heart  divines  aright.  Thft  youth  is  her 
son  and  yours." 

"  My  son !  my  son  1  Where  is  he  ?  Bring  Norman 
hither.  Why,  it  was  her  soul  I  saw  and  loved  in  his 
young  face.  And  she  knew  this  ?  Knew  it,  and  gave 
him  up  rather  than  harm  her  husband  I  Old  friend,  who 
shall  dare  to  say,  after  this,  that  women  are  on  a  level 
with  us  ?  or  affirm  that  they  never  perform  the  work  of 
angels  ?  And  she  is  now  my  wife  !  1  have  but  to  stand 
before  her,  and  she  will  forgive  the  unintentional  wrong 
which  put  another  in  her  place.  Samuel  Parris,  in  the 
joy  of  this  moment,  I  had  forgotten  the  new-made  grave 
up  yonder,  where  that  good  and  gentle  woman  lies.  Yet 
I  think  she,  who  was  all  goodness,  might  forgive  me  if 
she  knew  how  I  have  suffered.  Is  my  son  coming,  and 
his  wife  ?  So  you  and  I  are  made  nearer  by  the  love 


454  CLOSING     SCENES. 

which  unites  our  children.  I  am  glad  of  it.  Is  that 
Norman's  step  ?  Norman  !  Norman  !" 

The  young  man  heard  Sir  William's  voice,  so  clear  and 
animated  that  it  thrilled  him  with  pleasure.  He  entered 
the  library,  and  saw  the  governor  standing  near  the  table, 
so  changed  and  brightened  by  the  happiness  that  filled 
his  whole  being  that  the  young  man  gazed  on  him  in 
silent  astonishment.  Sir  William  came  toward  him,  and, 
pressing  a  hand  on  each  of  his  son's  shoulders,  looked  in 
his  face. 

"  Norman  !  Normart  !" 

His  voice  failed.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  the 
young  man  saw  tears  in  bis  father's  eyes ;  still,  a  grand, 
joyous  smite  broke  through  them. 

"  Norman  J  my — my — "  Sir  William's  voice  broke,  and 
his  chest  heaved  ;  he  threw  his  arms  around  the  young 
man,  and  strained  him  to  his  heart.  "Boy,  boy,  I  am 
your  father  !"  he  cried. 

"  My  father  !  mine  !"  repeated  the  young  man.  "  Oh  ! 
that  it  were  so  in  name,  as  it  has  been  in  kindness  I 
Father  !  bow  sweet  the  name  sounds  !" 

"  Repeat  it  again,  my  son  ;  for  before  God  and  man  you 
are  my  son.  I  did  not  know  that  human  language  could 
be  so  beautiful !" 

Norman  released  himself  gently  from  the  clasp  of  his 
father's  arms,  and  stood  before  him,  lost  in  amazement. 

"  Has  your  heart  no  voice  1  does  your  lips  refuse  to 
call  me  father  ?"  questioned  Sir-William,  in  tones  that 
thrilled  through  and  through  the  son. 

"  Forgive  me,  forgive  me ;  but  I  am  bewildered,"  he 
said.  "  You  call  me  son  for  the  first  time,  having  acted 
more  than  a  father's  part  by  me  for  many  a  year.  Is  it 
your  will  that  I  henceforth  call  you  by  the  dear  name  I 


CLOSING     SCENES.  455 

have  never  known  ?     If  so,  from   my  heart  of  hearts  I 
thank  you." 

Sir  William  saw  that  he  was  not  fully  understood  ;  but 
impatient  affection  foiled  all  explanation.  He  could  only 
affirm,  with  imploring  tenderness,  what  he  had  already 
said. 

"  Norman,  it  is  a  truth.  Receive  it  into  your  heart  at 
once.  You  are  my  lawfully-born  son — a  part  of  my  own 
young  life — the  child  of  a  love  perfect  as  mortal  beings 
ever  knew.  It  is  no  adoption  I  offer.  By  law  and  right 
you,  from  this  day,  take  position  before  the  world  as  my 
son  and  heir." 

"  But — but  my  mother ;  who  was  my  mother  ?  Not 
the  sweet  lady  whose  death  we  mourn  ?"  questioned 
Norman,  seized  with  a  sudden  pang,  "  or  I  should  have 
known  this  before." 

"  My  son,  it  is  not  an  hour  since  I  learned  it  myself," 
answered  Sir  William.  "Ask  this  man,  my  old  and  faith 
ful  friend,  who  married  me  to  your  mother." 

The  young  man's  face  cleared  ;  his  heart  flung  off  the 
painful  dread  that  had  seized  upon  it. 

"  Father  I  father  !"  he  cried,  reaching  forth  bis  arms  ; 
"  tell  me  who  my  mother  was.  Have  I  seen  her  ?  Was 
she  ever  known  as  Barbara  Stafford  ?  It  is  impossible, 
and  yet  my  soul  claims  her." 

"Boy,"  answered  Sir  William,  and  his  voice  took  sweet 
solemnity  as  he  spoke,  "  this  lady  is  my  wife  and  your 
mother  !  Do  not  question  me  so  earnestly  with  those 
eyes ;  I  have  no  dishonor  to  proclaim,  no  wilful  wrong  to 
atone  for.  This  good  man  will  tell  you  more  than  I  have 
yet  learned.  Sit  down  here,  close  by  my  side,  and  we 
will  listen  together;  but  first  bring  my  daughter,  your 
wife  ;  we  must  have  no  secrets  from  her." 


458  OVER     THE     WATER. 

life,  twining  hope  into  prayer,  and  waiting  God's  time  for 
her  deliverance. 

Barbara  loved  the  stately  edifice,  which  had  been  re 
paired  and  beautified  by  her  grandmother.  Indeed,  hers 
was  a  nature  to  love  every  thing  good  and  beautiful. 
Her  rooms  were  full  of  pictures,  statues,  and  rare  objects 
collected  in  her  travels.  The  gardens  and  broad  pleasure- 
grounds  around  her  mansion  glowed  with  flowers,  which 
clustered  thickest  .and  brighest  beneath  the  windows  of 
her  private  apartments.  Sorrow  had  neither  rendered 
her  austere  nor  indifferent.  She  loved  the  grand  old  forest- 
trees  which  waved  in  groups  upon  the  lawn,  and  every 
tiny  blossom  that  gemmed  the  turf  at  their  roots.  The 
pretty  birds  that  flashed  from  thicket  to  tree-bough  found 
a  welcome  in  her  heart,  heavy  as  it  was  at  times.  She 
strove,  with  Christian  fortitude,  to  replace  the  husband 
and  son  lost  to  her,  by  the  gentle  beauties  of  nature  ;  and, 
desolated  as  she  was,  life  had  its  sunny  side  even  for  her. 

One  morning  this  noble  woman — the  more  noble  that 
she  was  so  womanly — sat  alone  in  a  little  breakfast-room 
which  overlooked  a  vista  of  the  park,  and  nearer  yet  a 
flower-garden  radiant  with  June  roses  and  such  sister 
flowers  as  link  spring  to  summer.  That  morning  she  was 
weary  and  heavy-hearted  ;  her  mind  wandered  far  away 
in  spite  of  herself,  and  a  strange  yearning  to  look  upon 
the  two  faces  dearest  to  her  in  life  seized  upon  her.  She 
sat  gazing  out  upon  the  flowers,  with  unconscious  tears 
rolling  down  her  cheeks,  when  a  servant  knocked  at  the 
door,  and,  receiving  no  answer,  came  in. 

"  My  lady,  a  note  from  a  gentleman  who  waits  below  : 
two  others,  with  a  lovely  young  lady,  are  with  him  ;  but 
he  is  the  only  one  who  asks  to  see  you." 

Barbara  reached  forth  her  band  wearily,  and  took  the 


OVER    THE    WATER.  459 

note  thus  presented  from  the  salver.  She  did  not  look 
at  the  address,  but  tore  the  seal  apart,  and  read  one  word 
— William  Phipps — all  the  rest  ran  together,  and  she 
could  distinguish  nothing.  With  her  lips  apart,  and  the 
paper  shaking  in  her  hands,  she  sat  a  full  minute  gazing 
upon  the  name  without  seeing  it.  The  voice  of  the  ser 
vant  aroused  her. 

"  My  lady,  is  there  an  answer  ?" 

"Wait." 

The  voice  in  which  this  one  word  was  uttered  scarcely 
rose  above  a  whisper.  Barbara  swept  one  hand  across 
her  forehead  again  and  again,  clearing  her  confused  vision. 
At  last  she  read — 

"  I  am  here,  my  wife — here,  with  our  son  and  our  old 
friend  Samuel  Parris.  Will  you  receive  me  ?  Can  you 
forgive  me  ?  "  WILLIAM  PHIPPS." 

When  Barbara  Stafford  arose,  and  turned  her  face 
toward  the  servant,  it  was  so  radiant  that  the  man  stared 
at  her  in  amazement ;  but  she  gave  no  other  expression 
of  the  ecstasy  of  joy  that  swelled  even  to  pain  in  her 
heart. 

"  Show  the  gentleman  up  to  this  room,"  she  said.  "  I 
will  see  him  here." 

The  servant  went  out,  closing  the  door  after  him  ;  and 
there  Barbara  stood,  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  with  one 
hand  supported  by  the  carved  woodwork  of  her  chair,  and 
the  other  pressed  to  her  bosom,  waiting  for  the  one 
blissful  moment  which  would  be  enough  to  repay  all  her 
Borrows,  all  her  anguish  of  suspense.  She  heard  the  first 
sound  of  his  footstep,  and  her  heart,  that  had  stood  still 
up  to  that  moment,  beat  fast  and  loud.  The  door 


460  OVER    THE    WATEK. 

opened,  and  the  husband  of  her  youth  stood  on  the 
threshold.  She  could  not  speak  ;  she  did  not  move — but 
that  look  was  enough.  His  strong  arms  saved  her  from 
falling.  Her  head  was  pressed  to  his  bosom  ;  she  felt 
his  kisses  on  her  forehead ;  but  no  words  were  spoken — a 
few  sobs,  a  name  brokenly  uttered,  a  rain  of  tears  falling 
delicious  and  still,  like  dew  upon  thirsty  roses — then  this 
man  and  woman  sat  down,  hand  in  hand,  looking  at  each 
other. 

They  were  no  longer  young;  he  found  threads  of  gray 
in  those  golden  tresses,  and  traces  of  time  around  the 
loveliness  of  her  mouth.  But  what  of  that  ?  Those  who 
love  each  other  go  out  from  their  youth  soul-bound,  and 
time  has  no  change  which  does  not  deepen  and  sanctify 
that  true  affection  which  can  perish  only  with  the  soul's 
immortality. 

After  a  few  moments  of  this  delicious  silence  Barbara 
spoke  : 

"  Our  son,  William  ;  is  he  here  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  wife,  and  waiting  impatiently.  But  not  yet. 
Even  he  must  not  break  upon  our  heaven  so  soon." 

Beyond  the  crowning  happiness  of  these  few  minutes 
we  will  not  go. 


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